The Italia Judaica Jubilee Conference [1 ed.] 9789004243323, 9789004243316

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The Italia Judaica Jubilee Conference

Brill’s Series in Jewish Studies Series Editor

David S. Katz

VOLUME 48

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/bsjs

The Italia Judaica Jubilee Conference Edited by

Shlomo Simonsohn Joseph Shatzmiller

Leiden • boston 2013

Proceedings of the Italia Judaica Jubilee Conference held at Tel Aviv University January 3–5, 2010, organised by the Goldstein-Goren Diaspora Research Center of Tel Aviv University, in cooperation with the Fred W. Lessing Institute for European History and Civilization, the Cymbalista Jewish Heritage Center, the Faculty of Jewish Studies and the Golda and Israel Koschitzky Department of Jewish History at Bar-Ilan University, and the Istituto Italiano di Cultura. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Italia Judaica Jubilee Conference (2010 : Tel Aviv University)  The Italia Judaica Jubilee Conference / edited by Shlomo Simonsohn, Joseph Shatzmiller.   p. cm. — (Brill’s series in Jewish studies ; v. 48)  ISBN 978-90-04-24331-6 (hardback : alk. paper)—ISBN 978-90-04-24332-3 (e-book) 1. Jews—Italy—History—Congresses. 2. Italy—Ethnic relations—Congresses. I. Simonsohn, Shlomo, 1923– II. Shatzmiller, Joseph. III. Universitat Tel-Aviv. IV. Title.  DS135.I8I883 2010  305.892’4045—dc23

2012036705

This publication has been typeset in the multilingual “Brill” typeface. With over 5,100 characters covering Latin, IPA, Greek, and Cyrillic, this typeface is especially suitable for use in the humanities. For more information, please see www.brill.com/brill-typeface. ISSN 0926-2261 ISBN 978-90-04-24331-6 (hardback) ISBN 978-90-04-24332-3 (e-book) Copyright 2013 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Global Oriental, Hotei Publishing, IDC Publishers and Martinus Nijhoff Publishers. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill NV provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change. This book is printed on acid-free paper.

CONTENTS List of Contributors ............................................................................................ List of Illustrations ..............................................................................................

ix xi

Opening Remarks ............................................................................................... . Shlomo Simonsohn, Simonetta Dela Setta

1

The Escape from Vasto, Complaints of a 15th-Century Rabbi .............. . Dvora Bregman

5

Fortune and Providence: A Paradigm in Isaac Abravanel’s Encounter with Renaissance Culture ...................................................... 13 . Cedric Cohen Skalli Jews and the Grain, Oil and Wine Trades in 15th- and 16th-Century Apulia ...................................................................................... 21 . Cesare Colafemmina Jewish Book Collection and Patronage in Renaissance Italy ................ 37 . Andreina Contessa Joseph Ha-Cohen and His Negative Attitude Toward R. Meir Katzenellenbogen (Maharam Padova) .................................... 59 . Abraham David Re-creating Creation in the Early Italian Yoẓer: Between Tradition and Innovation .......................................................... 69 . Yehoshua Granat The Type of Community Minute Books—Some Preliminary Conclusions ..................................................................................................... 85 . Yaakov Andrea Lattes Again on the Mobility of Italian Jews between the Middle Ages and the Renaissance ..................................................................................... 97 . Michele Luzzati

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Towards Jewish Emancipation in the Grand-Duchy of Tuscany: The Case of Pitigliano through the Emblematic Figure of David Consiglio ........................................................................................... 107 . Davide Mano The Material Context of 15th-Century Hebrew Florentine Manuscripts: A Source of Information on Production, Ownership and Control of Hebrew Books in Their Christian Environment .............................................................................. 127 . Nurit Pasternak Italy, the “Breadbasket” of Hebrew Manuscripts ................................... 137 . Benjamin Richler Rhymes to Sing and Rhymes to Hang Up: Some Remarks on a Lampoon in Yiddish by Elye Bokher (Venice 1514) ................ 143 . Claudia Rosenzweig A Matter of Quotation: Dante and the Literary Identity of Jews in Italy .................................................................................................. 167 . Asher Salah From Sicily to Rome: The Cultural Route of Michele Zumat, Physician and Rabbi in the 16th Century ............................................ 199 . Angela Scandaliato The Angevins of Naples and the Jews ....................................................... 213 . Joseph Shatzmiller International Trade and Italian Jews at the Turn of the Middle Ages .................................................................................................. 223 . Shlomo Simonsohn The Conservation of History: The Archives of the Jewish Communities in the Veneto .................................................................... 239 . Ariel Viterbo The Jewish Presence in Sicily as Reflected in Medieval Sicilian Historiography ............................................................................................. 247 . Nadia Zeldes



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Index of Names................................................................................................... 261 Index of Geographical Terms......................................................................... 264

List of Contributors Dvora Bregman, Ben-Gurion University of the Negev Cedric Cohen Skalli, Tel Aviv University Cesare Colafemmina, University of Bari Andreina Contessa, The Italian Jewish Museum, Jerusalem Abraham David, The National Library of Israel, Jerusalem Simonetta Dela Setta, Istituto Italiano di Cultura, Tel Aviv Yehoshua Granat, The Hebrew University of Jerusalem Yaakov Andrea Lattes, Bar-Ilan University Michele Luzzati, University of Pisa Davide Mano, Tel Aviv University Nurit Pasternak, The Hebrew University of Jerusalem Benjamin Richler, The National Library of Israel, Jerusalem Claudia Rosenzweig, Bar-Ilan University Asher Salah, Bezalel Academy of Arts and Design Angela Scandaliato, Associazione Italiana per lo Studio del Giudaismo Joseph Shatzmiller, Duke University Shlomo Simonsohn, Tel Aviv University

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Ariel Viterbo, The National Library of Israel, Jerusalem Nadia Zeldes, The Hebrew University of Jerusalem

List of Illustrations Andreina Contessa Figures  1. Rothschild Mahzor, New York, Library of the Jewish Theological Seminary of America Mic. 8892, Florence, c. 1492, fol. 6v .............................................................................................. 2. Paris, Mahzor, Bibliotheque nationale de France, Fondation Smith-Lesouef, MS 250, Ferrara (?) 1520, fol. 5 ................................. 3. Rothschild Mahzor, New York, Library of the Jewish Theological Seminary of America Mic. 8892, Florence, c. 1492, fol. 395v ......................................................................................................... 4. Hebrew Bible, Private Collection, written in 1489, illuminated in Ferrara in the early and mid-16th century, fol. 27 ...................... 5. Hebrew Bible, Private Collection, written in 1489, illuminated in Ferrara in the early and mid-16th century, fol. 124 .................... 6. Hebrew Bible, Private Collection, written in 1489, illuminated in Ferrara in the early and mid-16th century, fols. 1v–2 ................ 7. Tommaso di Vio Caietani, Commentary on St. Thomas Summa Theologiae, commissioned by Pope Leo X Medici in 1517. Rome, Accademia Nazionale dei Lincei and Corsiniana MS 40D. 23–40D.24; MS Corsiniana 1478–1478bis ............................................. 8. Book of Hours, Use of Rome, ‘The Hours of Dionora of Urbino’ (Eleonora Gonzaga della Rovere) Italy, Ferrara or Rome, London, British Library, MS Yates Thompson 7, fol. 14 c. 1510–1515 .................................................................................................... 9. Coat of arms, Imola Bible, Spain, 1451, and Ferrara early 16th century, Imola, Municipal Library MS 77, fol. 166v ................

39 41 43 46 47 48

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51 53

Abraham David Figures  1. Ms. Kaufmann (Budapest) 332, Joseph Ha-Cohen: Letters, Fol. 61v–62v: Joseph’s letter to R. Meir Katzenellenbogen, dated: 28 Iyyar 1543 (above pp. 62–63) ............................................................

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2. Ms. Kaufmann (Budapest) 332, Joseph Ha-Cohen: Letters, Fol. 62v–63r: Joseph’s letter to R. Meir Katzenellenbogen, dated Tishrei 1544 (above p. 64) ........................................................................ 3. Ms. Kaufmann (Budapest) 332, Joseph Ha-Cohen: Letters, Fol. 64r–64v: Joseph’s letter to his father-in-law R. Abraham Ha-Cohen of Bologna, dated 30 July 1543 (above p. 63) ................

67 68

Yaakov Andrea Lattes Figures 1. The Periodisation of Italian Minute Books ........................................ 2. Comparison with Registers of Other Countries ............................... 3. Various Population Strata within the Jewish Community of Rome .............................................................................................................. 4. Distribution of Wealth .............................................................................

94 94

Tables 1. Topics Covered by the Minute Books ................................................. 2. Methods for Holding Elections ..............................................................

90 93

88 89

Benjamin Richler Tables 1. Number of Manuscripts of Italian Provenance ................................ 140 Asher Salah Tables 1. Hebrew Works Supposedly Inspired by Dante’s Divina Commedia ..................................................................................................... 2. Partial List of Italian Jews Who Wrote on Dante and Judaism in the 19th Century .................................................................................... 3. Translators of Dante’s Divina Commedia into Hebrew (and Yiddish) ............................................................................................... 4. Translations into Italian of Hebrew Works Supposedly Influenced by Dante .................................................................................

171 182 186 187



list of illustrations

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Angela Scandalatio Figure 1. From Sicily to Rome: The Zumat family (15th‒16th century) ...... 207 Shlomo Simonsohn Table 1. The Collection of Import and Export Duties as Instructed by Alphonso IV of Aragon in 1329 .............................................................. 225

Opening Remarks Opening Address—Jubilee Conference Italia Judaica—Shlomo Simonsohn Mr. Chairman, Ladies and Gentlemen Needless to say I am honoured at and delighted by this Jubilee celebration of Italia Judaica, my life’s work and main contribution to historical research. I shall spare you my emotions and instead try and give you a brief run down of the background which led to the conception of the project, some of its achievements and my hopes for its continuation if not completion by those who shall continue the good work. As I stated recently at another conference (at my age one tends to quote oneself ), my involvement with the documentary history of the Jews in Italy was accidental. On the completion of my studies in England in far distant 1953, the late Cecil Roth, who was then the dean of scholars of Italian Jewish history, suggested that on my way back to Israel I take a look at what he described in his habitual offhand manner as a possible source for research, namely the community archives in Mantua. He gave me an introductory gift to bear to Vittore Colorni, himself an historian of renown and (in due course) a lifelong friend. And so I arrived in Mantua on a dark and stormy Februray night, only to discover there a veritable goldmine in Via Gilberto Govi 11. The rest is in itself history, details of which you will find in the Proceedings of that conference and (perhaps) in my memoirs, if I ever get round to doing them. That was the first milestone on a road which I am still walking. The guidelines of the Italia Judaica project in themselves were not a new departure in themselves, though no similar project had ever before been attempted in Jewish history. The project contrasts sharply with what I call the fads and fallacies of some members of my profession. Historical revisionism, hailed by the media as a path-breaking innovation, has been practised for generations. Nowadays the trend calls itself “post”, post modernist, post Zionists, and so forth. Not surprisingly it is already on its way out, only to be replaced by some more agenda motivated approaches. The Italia Judaica project is far more ambitious but less controversial. It attempts to lay the foundations for serious historical research into the history of the Jews in Italy. At this point in time it covers some two thirds of the period for which Jewish presence in Italy is attested: throughout the

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Middle Ages to the “First Emancipation”, i.e the period during which the Jewish Italian community flourished, first in the South of the country and from the beginning of the 16th century in the North. As conceived by me at the end of the fifties, the project is divided into several sections. One is the systematic publication of documentary material scattered among the archives of Italy. As a result 32 volumes of documents have been published and the 33rd is in print. They cover the former Duchy of Milan, Piedmont, Genoa, Umbria, Rome (partly) and Sicily. 3–4 more volumes have been completed. They deal with Southern Italy and parts of Tuscany (Lucca). Work is in progress on other parts of Italy. Another is the compilation of a classified bibliography of the history of the Jews in Italy. So far 4 volumes have been published, listing over 10,000 publications which appeared during the past 50 years or so. Yet another is an historical lexicon of the Jewish communities in Italy. It contains over a thousand settlements and will be completed in a few years. Owing to its “perishable” quality, which makes it out of date the moment it is published, it is being published on an internet site. The project was incorporated into the Diaspora Research Institute (now the Goren-Goldstein Diaspora Research Centre) on the latter’s creation (1964). When the cultural agreement between Israel and Italy included the research of Jewish Italian history in its articles (1979), the Institute assumed the direction of some joint Italo-Israeli programmes on the part of Israel. These included the organisation of international conferences, ten of which have taken place in Italy and in Israel. The publications of the proceedings too have enriched Judaeo-Italian historical literature, while at the same time fostering relations between Italy and Israel. I use this opportunity to call upon the foreign ministries of both countries to infuse new vigour into this part of the cultural pact between the two countries. An outstanding feature of Italia Judaica is its being based on team work. Unlike most research in the humanities, much of its output is based on collaboration between scholars in Israel and abroad, chiefly in Italy. The project has generated much research and publication, books and papers, the training of young scholars, and an appetite for more in days to come. In conclusion, may I state with due modesty that I know of no similar project in Jewish historical research in Israel or abroad either in quality or in magnitude. I trust that my successors will continue the good work successfully.



opening remarks

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Opening Remarks—Simonetta Dela Setta I am honoured to take part today in the opening of the Italia Judaica Jubilee conference. I also represent here the Ambassador of Italy, Luigi Mattiolo, who unfortunately cannot attend, as he is abroad. Allow me convey to you his greetings and personal support for this important conference, as well as for the long and important enterprise of the last 50 years in which Prof. Shlomo Simonsohn, together with his assistants, has contributed so much both to the history of Italy and to the history of the Jewish people. The Jewish presence in Italy has been continuous, active, and consistent for 2,200 years. Throughout the different eras, some more successful, some less, the encounter between Jewish culture and Italian culture has produced a very creative laboratory of thoughts, ideas, styles, and artefacts. Jewish life has become a very interesting and rich segment of Italian life, while Italian Jewry has certainly contributed new content and styles to Judaism. Italian Institutions have recently discovered the importance of ItalianJewish heritage for the history of modern Italy. Here are some concrete steps that show Italy’s great interest in this subject: the organisation by the Italian Institute of Culture of the exhibition “Italia Ebraica, two thousand and two hundred years of encounter between the Italian and the Jewish cultures,” which opened in Israel at the Eretz Israel Museum, in December 2007; the creation of a Museum of Italian Jewry in Ferrara; a new Museum on the Shoah in the city of Rome; and the conference on “Italy-Israel: the last 150 Years,” that the Italian Embassy organised in Jerusalem in May 2011 on the occasion of 150 years of Italian unification. The Cultural Agreement between Italy and Israel also shows a deep awareness of the rich common ground created by Italian-Jewish heritage. It is important to mention the recent revival of Southern Italian Jewry, with cultural initiatives taking place in Apulia, in Sicily, and in Calabria, once homeland to so many vital Jewish communities, as proved by the Italia Judaica scholars. One name above all has become synonymous with Italia Judaica: that of Prof. Shlomo Simonsohn, the first and true pioneer in this field. Fifty years ago, when he started his research and brought attention to Jewish life in Italy, many fewer—practically no—scholars were dealing with the subject, and many archives had not even been examined. In some cases,

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scholars were not even aware of the value of the Jewish documents contained in their treasuries. I believe that the great tradition of Italian archives, the art of conservation and preservation of documents which finds in Italy its first and best scola, has certainly contributed to the long and fruitful journey of Prof. Simonsohn and to the work achieved by any other scholar today. Nowadays we have the Internet, global communication, and the ASSEI association, which bring together all those who do research on Italian Jewry. However, we would have no results without the Italian devotion to the archive system. The encounter between Italy’s most skilled archivists and the best Jewish and non-Jewish scholars has laid the foundation for discovering a treasure, Italia Judaica, which celebrates 50 years today, and created a huge field for students, and scholars, and a source of knowledge for diplomats and politicians. I hope that some of them will be able to continue on Prof. Simonsohn’s path. Many subjects have yet to be explored, many eras require more study. Two of them relate to modern Italy: the participation of Italian Jews in the national making of Italy (Risorgimento), and the role of Italy during the Aliya Beth, the operation at the end of World War II, organised by different Jewish bodies to bring European Jews who had survived the Shoah to the Land of Israel. I am certain that research on these two chapters will disclose more and more common ground between Italy and Israel, reaffirming the feelings of closeness that have characterised relations between the two countries for so long.

The Escape from Vasto, Complaints of a 15th-Century Rabbi Dvora Bregman This paper briefly introduces my recently published book, an edition of a Hebrew composition in prose, ‫( חמס הזמן‬Hamas ha-Zeman, The Tyranny of Time), written by R. Azariah Ibn Ephraim of Modena in Vasto, a coastal town in Abruzzo, Italy, in 1481.1 The work was first published by Johann Wittkower, who unfortunately relied on a single manuscript wrongly arranged and lacking the first and last pages.2 Inevitably, he produced an erroneous and hardly comprehensible edition. Ignorant of its real title, he published it as Sefer ha-Musar (The Book of Ethics). The incorrect title is still used in several library catalogues. Over the last centuries, additional manuscripts containing copies of the work have become available. Only one of those, kept in Berlin, has the whole text, while another, owned now by Mr. M. Marx of London, contains the most reliable version, as we shall see.3 As a matter of course, I based my edition on the latter, filling in gaps with bits gleaned from the first. I also compared the versions of all the manuscripts and marked the not infrequent variations between them. Hamas ha-Zeman starts with an illuminative prologue. The author narrates that he resided for twenty years in the town of Vasto “under the Rule of our King Ferdinandos, may he live for many years.” Documents published by Prof. Cesare Colafemmina have established the existence of a Jewish community in Vasto at the end of the 15th century, but R. Azariah’s ­narration sets it back to the fifties, as it is inconceivable that he would

1 Azariah Ibn Ephraim ben Joab of Modena, The Tyranny of Time (Jerusalem 2010). See there for a more detailed introduction and see reviews by A.M. Lesely, Renaissance Quarterly 64/2 (2011), pp. 658–660 and C. Colafemmina, in Sefer Yuḥasin XXVI (2010), pp. 84–85. 2 J. Wittkower (ed.), Sefer ha-Musar (Lyck 1871), based on Hamburg Staats und Universitätsbibliothek, Cod. hebr. MS 255, ff. 1–19 [Catalogue Steinschneider 185] [Hebrew]. 3 MS Berlin = Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin—Preussischer Kulturbesitz, Cod. Or. Qu. 825 255, ff. 1–19 [Catalogue Steinschneider 327]; MS Montefiore, formerly London, Montefiore Collection 363, ff. 80–87 (5307), now New York, Jewish Theological Seminary, MS 10762; MS Marx, formerly London, Montefiore Collection, 304 (5254), now owned by Michael Marx of London; MS New York, Jewish Theological Seminary, MS 2373.

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live there as the only Jew. Of no less interest is his report, as well as his prologue, concerning his affairs in Vasto. The year 1481, he says, finds him deeply depressed, as he is obliged to move away from the town, where, as he recalls, he was treated with love by the king, and many of the local landlords allowed him to travel through their lands. In great haste, he wrote down his composition and deposited “it” in his father’s house, so that it might be copied and distributed among his acquaintances. The fact that Azariah wished his work to be transcribed in his father’s home led me to presume that the first copyist of Hamas ha-Zeman was none other than Azariah’s father, Ephraim. Jefim Schirmann published a poem by Ephraim ben Yoav of Modena,4 a known copyist who lived in Italy in the 15th century. He, I assumed, might have been our author’s father, although Azariah did not mention ben Yoav as his ancestral name. My assumption was confirmed through a paleographical comparison of the above-mentioned Marx manuscript with several extant works of R. Ephraim ben Yoav, which identified them all as products of one and the same hand.5 This finding also linked Azaria to the ben Yoav family, famous for its scholars, poets, copyists, and bankers. Since author and copyist were closely related and lived, as it seems, under the same roof while the copy of the original manuscript was produced, it was only logical to assume that the two collaborated in the production. Here, the proofreading marks on the margins of the Marx manuscript were illuminating, as they include not only corrections of the copy, but of the original version itself, and must have been noted by the author. Regarding R. Azariah’s whereabouts after his escape from Vasto, there is a single extant piece of evidence: his signature on a permit to perform ritual slaughter issued in 1495 in Argenta,6 a town near Ferarra. It would seem then that his flight ended in peace and he returned to his ancestral homeland in northern Italy. This rabbinic document accords with the style of Hamas ha-Zeman, replete with erudition in Bible, Talmud and Kabbalah. Did he function as a rabbi in Vasto? He might have done so in addition to his main occupation, which from his accounts of travelling

4 J. Shirmann (ed.), Anthologie der hebräischen Dichtung in Italien (Berlin 1934), p. 200 [Hebrew]. 5 I am grateful to Dr. Edna Engel for that examination. 6 Biblioteca Palatina, Cod. Parm. 1801 [De Rossi 1272] (page unnumbered). See appendix 1, p. 43 in my edition of Hamas ha-Zeman. I am grateful to Dr. Benyamin Richler of the Institute of Microfilmed Hebrew Manuscripts in the National Library of Israel in Jerusalem for pointing out that document.



the escape from vasto, complaints of a 15th-century rabbi

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throughout the estates of local landlords appears to be some commercial trade, tax farming, or money lending. Azariah’s prologue is intriguing as much as illuminating. What did he mean when he described himself as a friend of the king? Did he really meet the king personally? And what afflictions did he suffer? What drove him to suddenly leave Vasto? The answers to these puzzles are disguised in the highly metaphoric language the author uses in parts of the introduction and throughout the entire composition. As his enemy and source of his troubles, the author names Time. He refers no doubt to the well-known metaphor for Fate, typical of the genre of “complaint” in Arabic and Hebrew medieval poetry. But it seems that aside from lamenting his bad luck, as customary in this genre, Azariah is also hinting at a powerful human being, perhaps a local ruler or even the king himself as the cause of his distress. This assumption is made plausible by a maxim found in the epilogue to the work: “These three cannot be trusted, the king, the sea, and Time.” It would seem that King Fernando, mentioned so reverently in the introduction, has let R. Azariah down. But how? Hamas ha-Zeman is replete with complaints against Time: Time despises the author and harasses him, it despises wisdom and pursues the wise, it resents the Torah, it “loveth the stranger and gives him food and clothing”—a rather strange accusation in view of the commandment in the Torah to do just that (Deuteronomy 10:18–19). Time, says R. Azariah, loves magicians and soothsayers and those who desert their faith. It laid siege on the “City of Wisdom” and demolished it. He provides an impressive description of that siege: The chariots Time sent dash about in the fields. With arched bows they rush through the streets. Like streaks of lightning the runners race. The chariot riders and the couriers scurry to the City of Wisdom, like fire that makes water boil, like fire blazing all day. On the mountaintops hairy men dance about like wild goats, running like heroes. Like warriors, they scale the wall with great wrath and fury. Like thieves they come to steal the hearts of those for whom stolen water is sweet [Proverbs 9:17] and over them they secretly scheme. And Time ignited a flame in the wall of wisdom, and its palaces mourn in the storm of Time, on the day of tempest, the day of great darkness, rage and fury and trouble. (Passage 43)

The “City of Wisdom” might well be an allegorical designation for a ­Jewish academy or yeshiva. However, to gain any insight into what caused its destruction, or indeed to any concrete circumstances that underlay R. Azariah’s metaphors, one should turn to historical research concerning the period of his stay in Vasto.

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Ferdinand or Ferrante of Aragon, King of Naples, is known for his kindness toward the Jews. Hebrew sources praise him for welcoming Jews to the kingdom and for allowing them to live according to their convictions while non-Hebrew sources note various privileges he granted the Jews, and mention a special royal court he established to ensure to them fair justice when involved in litigation with Christians. But Ferrante’s throne was never stable, as French and other foreign armies frequently invaded the kingdom assisted by ever-rebellious local feudal barons who opposed royal reforms. The Jews who assisted the king in carrying out these reforms with capital and skill became permanent targets of harassment by the Barons. However, the entire population of the kingdom, Christians and Jews alike, suffered from continuous political and social upheaval. During R. Azariah’s stay, Vasto, perhaps more then any other Neapolitan city, was subjected to ongoing fights among various armed parties opposing each other. Those included the Royal army, three strong feudal houses, Guevara, d’Avalos, and Caldora, whose vast castle is still intact in the centro storico of the town, and a group of local patriots striving to attain a sort of home rule. Each of those forces ruled the town in turn, for longer or shorter periods. In 1463, two years after Azariah’s arrival, Antonio Caldora seized the town, ruled until then by the king. Luigi Marchesani, himself a local citizen, reports in his Storia di Vasto, written in the 1840s: “Ferrante personally set out to capture back the town from Caldora. His forces took positions opposite the Church of San Giacomo, but Caldora’s soldiers fired artillery shells from his fort and decimated their lines.” As the siege on the fort went on, Ferrante left Vasto to fight a war against the pope. The siege on the castle came to an end in 1464, when citizens, incited by secret agents, turned Caldora over to the royal forces.7 Marchesani’s narration provides clues to some of the abovementioned puzzles. Evidently, the king was present in Vasto at the time of the poet’s stay, so it might be conceivable that R. Azariah did indeed see him face to face, perhaps as partner in a Jewish delegation to the king or even as its leader. And it might be at that point that the king granted him those favors for which he is so grateful in his introduction. Marchesani’s vivid description of the siege on the Caldora castle seems to echo in Azariah’s even more vivid description of the siege that Time laid on the City of Wisdom. We may assume that Azariah made use 7 Luigi Marchesani, Storia di Vasto (Pescara, 1966) (first edition 1841), p. 28.



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of sights and sounds kept in memory of the first to depict the second. Was it a physical attack or another sort of pressure that brought about the destruction of the venerable Jewish institution? The answer to that remains submerged in metaphor. Marchesani’s narration provides insight into the complex and tumultuous socio-political situation in Vasto during R. Azariah’s stay: the rapid change of government, the constant war, the activity of secret agents, the political scheming. In this state of affairs anyone, let alone a Jew, could easily get entangled in something that might appear to be a plot against a powerful lord or ruler (in fact, such cases have been documented). Quite likely, this was the fate of our author. Usually, at a time of such a calamity, he would have sought help from Ferrante, but now the king was absent, managing a distant war, as Marchesani recounted. This, presumably, is what R. Azariah means when he hints that the king let him down. In addition to these plausible assumptions the religious factor should also be considered, as evident from some of our author’s complaints. At that time, the Kingdom of Naples was notorious for a general anti-Jewish atmosphere due in great part to the clergy’s aggressive, widespread propaganda campaign among the population. But R. Azariah, perhaps carefully avoiding this topic, seems to put the blame on religious issues that were dividing the Jews themselves. The Jewish communities in Naples consisted of quite a mixed lot of religious identities. Beside those who considered themselves genuine Jews and were recognised as such, there were the conversos, who had just returned to Judaism and were always suspected of secretly adhering to Christian customs, and there were those who converted to Christianity after having arrived in the kingdom as Jews. These New Christians chose to remain in the Jewish quarters, where they were subjected to even more suspicion and hatred than the conversos, frequently for good reason. It is very likely that it is mainly that last group to which R. Azariah refers as deserters of their faith, soothsayers, and magicians, and as newcomers, unjustly preferred by Time to the local, true Jews like himself, a resident of Vasto for 20 years. And it might well be one or some of those New Christians who schemed against R. Azariah and took away his means of livelihood, and who somehow brought about the destruction of the Jewish institution of study—the City of Wisdom to which R. Azariah must have belonged whether as teacher or one of the scholars. R. Azariah’s complaints call to mind known Hebrew poets, such as Shlomo Ibn Gabirol, who depicted Time as the enemy of wisdom and the wise, or Moshe and Abraham Ibn Ezra, who poetically accused Time for

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their misfortunes. Petrarch, to name just one non-Jewish luminary, grieved over the “Triumph of Time” in his Trionfi. But R. Azariah deviates from them by directing his accusations not only towards Time as a metaphor for Fate or for the ruler, if we will, but towards God himself. This he does directly and daringly. When God completed his Creation, Azariah says, He handed over its government to Time. He then directed Time to rule justly, to reward the pious and punish the reprobate. Yet Time rebelled against the Lord by doing just the opposite (Passages 1, 2, 26), and is still pursuing his evil ways. Unhindered, it keeps its grip upon mankind and so it will go on until the end of time in the world to come (Passages 18, 37). Considering that state of affairs, our author demands an explanation from the Almighty: How could he leave the world in the hands of that mischievous ruler? Why not stop it, punish it, and remove it from its high position? Delaying these steps until the next world, Azariah says, is unjust and unsatisfactory. Let justice be done here and now (Passage 42). These bold claims recall majestic Biblical figures: the patriarch Abraham, who demanded that Godly justice be done; the author of Ecclesiastes, who wondered about the purpose of human life; and most of all Job, who insisted on a divine account for his suffering. However, unlike Ecclesiastes, the king, who free of ordinary worries could indulge in general, philosophical query, Azariah, an ordinary human being, prey to existential common worries, bases his general claims on his private, mundane ­misery. And unlike Abraham and Job, who were blessed with a godly guiding vision, he is left in the dark and must cope with his problems unassisted. In fact, Hamas ha-Zeman is nothing but an impressively candid report of his struggle, which constitutes a long and devious spiritual voyage, now advancing, now retreating, but on the whole ascending toward a solution. Having dealt with its initial, greater part, let us now pay attention to its last stages. When complaints, questions, prayers, and logical argumentation prove futile, R. Azariah falls into despair. If the only ruler is Time, and Time hates wisdom, he asks, “Why should I live?” (Passage 44). At that point, he remembers a non-Jewish philosopher (whose identity he prefers not to disclose) who pointed out the limitations of an evil force (in his case, envy): the greatest harm it can inflict is death. It can never impair human intelligence nor weaken human integrity. Adopting this attitude with a twist toward Time, R. Azariah realises the limits of its power: It can do no more then kill him. This in itself is a sort of victory for Azariah over Time. He decides to give up his quest to understand, to see justice done, or to be rewarded for his righteousness, since Time can and aims to deny him



the escape from vasto, complaints of a 15th-century rabbi

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all those, and to just hold on to his virtues, immune to Time’s tyranny (Passage 46). Sadly, he accepts the power of Time over mankind as an incomprehensible will of God. If the Lord wants us to suffer the tyranny of Time, he says, so be it, and as we are lost, we are lost (‫)באשר אבדנו אבדנו‬. But as he humbles himself, unquestioning and undemanding, before the Almighty, he sees, all of a sudden, that he is not required to totally abandon his aspirations but only to limit his ambition. Since Time can touch neither our intelligence nor our virtues, he says, let us use those qualities to the utmost in the search for wisdom and spiritual perfection within the boundaries of Time, never stopping, but never expecting the impossible. Let us be content with that and take comfort from our (hopefully) just reward in the world to come, when the rule of Time is over. Having reached that decision our author becomes serene, and old, familiar convictions that were pushed aside by ongoing spiritual tumult surface in his mind: “And who knows—perhaps the Almighty will perform one of his many wonders and free us in a wondrous way from the yoke of Time even in this very life, here and now” (Passage 46). And as a true kabbalist, who appreciates thought and study but also believes in the power of wonder, our author ends his composition with a wishful prayer that the Lord grant him insight into the holy books and enable him to discover their hidden secrets (Epilogue). Thus ends a spiritual voyage from emotional tumult and intellectual strife within the realm of the incomprehensible towards peace and calm in the realm of the known and the familiar; a voyage home. It ends on the eve of an actual voyage towards the unknown, in search of shelter and means of living. But our poet is equipped now with faith and certitude, and is ready for a new experience under the tyranny of Time.

Fortune and Providence: A Paradigm in Isaac Abravanel’s Encounter With Renaissance Culture Cedric Cohen Skalli One of the major problems in addressing the question of the humanistic aspects of Isaac Abravanel’s literary work1 is to elucidate the intellectual paradigms that both allowed him to connect himself to humanistic discourse and constituted the framework of an understanding of himself as a financier, leader, and writer. Recent and less recent scholarship has revealed clear humanistic trends in Abravanel’s work and life, including the use of classical literature, humanistic rhetorical conceptions, ancient and contemporary history, astrology, magic, and kabbalah, but also republican ideas and humanistic models of leadership.2 Still, much work needs to be done to get a clearer idea of his involvement in Renaissance culture and his assimilation of it. In other words, the question is less whether

1 On the life and work of Don Isaac Abravanel (1437–1508), see E. Lawee, Isaac Abarbanel’s Stance Toward Tradition (Albany 2001); A. F. Borodowski, Isaac Abravanel on Miracles, Creation, Prophecy, and Evil: The Tension Between Medieval Jewish Philosophy and Biblical Studies (New York 2003); B. Netanyahu, Don Isaac Abravanel: Statesman and Philosopher (Philadelphia 1953). 2 M. Idel, “Kabbalah and Prisca Theologia in Rabbi Isaac and Yehuda Abravanel’s Writings” (Hebrew), The Philosophy of Leone Ebreo: Four Lectures, M. Dorman and Z. Levi (eds.) (Haifa 1985), pp. 73–112; R. Ben-Shalom, “The Image of Christian Culture in the Historical Consciousness of the Jews of Twelfth to Fifteenth Century Spain and Provence” (Hebrew), Ph.D. dissertation, Tel Aviv University, 1996; R. Ben-Shalom, “Myth and Classical Mythology in the Historical Consciousness of Medieval Spanish Jewry,” Zion 66 (2001), pp. 451–494 [Hebrew]; E. Gutwirth, “Don Ishaq Abravanel and Vernacular Humanism in FifteenthCentury Iberia,” Bibliothèque d’Humanisme et Renaissance 60 (1998), pp. 641–671; id., “Consolatio: Don Ishaq Abravanel and the Classical Tradition,” Medievalia et Humanistica 27 (2000), pp. 79–98; A. Ravitzky, “Kings and Laws in Late Medieval Jewish Thought: Nissim Gerona vs. Isaac Abravanel,” in Scholars and Scholarship, the Interaction Between Judaism and Other Cultures, L. Landman (ed.) (New York 1990), pp. 67–90; C. Cohen Skalli, The Humanistic Rhetoric of Don Isaac Abravanel: Rhetoric, History and Tradition in Abravanel’s Letters and Introductions, Ph.D. dissertation, Tel Aviv University, 2005; id., “Discovering Isaac Abravanel’s Humanistic Rhetoric,” Jewish Quarterly Review 97 (2007), pp. 67–99; id., “Authorship in the Age of Early Jewish Print: Ma’ayanei ha-Yeshua and the First Printed Edition in Ferrara 1551,” in Tradition, Heterodoxy and Religious Culture: Judaism and Christianity in the Early Modern Period, C. Goodblatt and H. Kreisel (eds.) (Beer Sheva 2006), pp. 185–201; id., “Yitshaq Abravanel’s First Edition (Constantinople 1505): Rhetorical Content and Editorial Background,” Hispania Judaica 5 (2007), pp. 153–176.

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Abravanel borrowed humanistic conceptions in his Hebrew and Jewish work, than in which way and in which framework. I would like to present in this paper what seems to me one of the central avenues of Abravanel’s assimilation of humanism. I rely in this paper on the work of Angel Gomez Moreno, Pedro Catedra, and Jeremy Lawrence, who convincingly established the existence of a 15th-century Iberian humanism different in many of its features from 14th- and 15th-century Italian humanism.3 Isaac Abravanel lived in the Iberian Peninsula—first in Portugal and then in Castile—until the Expulsion of 1492, when he fled to Italy. There he lived first in Naples, then in the Venetian cities of Corfu and Monopoly, and finally in Venice itself (which was uncommon for a Jew at the time) until his death in 1508. Hence Abravanel experienced both Iberian and Italian humanism during his life. But his knowledge of Italian humanism predates his Italian period; it began in Portugal, where he was in regular commercial and literary contact with people in Tuscany, as we know from his letters to Yehiel da Pisa and other commercial documents.4 We may add that the literary success of Isaac Abravanel’s firstborn son, Yehudah—author of the Dialoghi d’amore—is a clear testimony of the integration of Don Isaac and his sons into Italian Renaissance humanism and culture. The following pages will present what seems to me the central conceptual paradigm of Abravanel’s work: the tension between fortune and divine providence. It is important to stress that this conceptual duality is also a 3 A. Gomez Moreno, Epaña y la Italia de los humanistas (Madrid 1994); G. Pontón, Correspondencias, Los orígenes del arte epistolar en España (Madrid 2002); P. Catedra, “Una epistola ‘consolatoria’ attribuida al Tostado,” Atalya III (1992), pp. 165–176; id., “Prospeccion sobre el género consolatorio en el siglo XV,” in Letters and Society in Fifteenth-Century Spain, A.D. Deyermond and J. Lawrance (eds.) (Oxford 1993), pp. 1–16; id., “Creación y lectura: sobre el genero consolatorio en el siglo XV,” in Studies on Medieval Spanish Literature in Honor of Charles F. Fraker, M. Vaquero and A.D. Deyermond (eds.) (Madison, 1995), pp. 35–61; id., “Modos de consolar por carta,” in Actas del VI Congreso Internacional de la Asociación Hispánica de Literatura Medieval, J.M. Lucía Megías (ed.) (Alcalá de Henares 1997), pp. 469–487; J. Lawrance, “Nuevos lectores y nuevos generos: apuntes y observaciones sobre la epistolografia en el primer rinacimento español,” in Literatura en la Época del Emperador (Salamanca 1988), pp. 81–99; id., “The Spread of Lay Literacy in Late Medieval Castile,” Bulletin of Hispanic Studies LXII (1985), pp. 79–94; id., “Nuño de Guzmán and Early Spanish Humanisam: Some Reconsiderations,” Medium Aevum 51 (1982), pp. 55–85; id., “Humanism in the Iberian Peninsula,” in The Impact of Humanism on Western Europe, A. Goodman and A. MacKay (eds.) (London, 1990); id., “On Fifteenth-Century Spanish Vernacular Humanism,” in Medieval and Renaissance Studies in Honour of Robert Brian Tate, I. Michael and R.A. Cardwell (eds.) (Oxford 1986), pp. 63–79. 4 On this question, see C. Cohen Skalli, Isaac Abravanel: Letters (Berlin and New York 2007).



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15

central theme in Castilian vernacular humanism, especially in Enrique de Villena’s Los doce trabajos de Hercules, Juan de Mena’s El labyrintho, and the Marques de Santillana’s Bias contra fortuna.5 In Isaac Abravanel’s only extant Portuguese letter (1470–1471), we may read a clear expression of the uncertainty of life and the stoic consciousness that men should develop in response to human condition: In his letters, Seneca maintains that we must wait for death like a prepared table for a host who, if he does not come for lunch, will arrive in time for dinner, and so from day to day. In fact, as logicians say, nothing is more certain than death, and nothing is more uncertain than the hour when it will take place.6

Uncertainty of life and death affect the entire human experience, which is constantly subjected to contingency. This condition of man is the ontological ground for two different—and sometimes conflicting—interpretations of the vicissitudes of life: fortune and providence. The first term refers to a system of natural forces ultimately related to astral influences. The second refers to God’s intervention in history and in the lives of individuals. In this Portuguese letter, Abravanel insists on the ruling of fortune over human affairs and on the stoic ethic that must shape the aristocratic consciousness of the leader. Life submitted to chance means for the nobleman that life is full of opportunities for success.7 This neo-stoic and humanistic view of leadership, which Abravanel acquired from 15th-century Iberian literature, was very probably a shared ideology whose assimilation enabled his to integrate into Court society, not only in economic terms as a financier, but in cultural terms as a humanist. The many letters that Abravanel must have written in Portuguese, Spanish, and perhaps in Italian, are lost, so we can only speculate—based on the Portuguese epistle—about the nature of his humanistic correspondence with non-Jews. But no doubt a discourse on fortune, an ethic of action, and a psychology of the remedies of fortune were among the ­topics he discussed.

5 E. de Villena, Obras Completas, P. Catedra (ed.) (Madrid 1994), pp. 1–112; J. de Mena, Obra Completa, A. Gomez Moreno and T. Jimenez Calvente (eds.) (Madrid 1994), pp. 13–174; Marques de Santillana, Obras Completas, A. Gomez Moreno and M.P. Kerkhof (eds.) (Madrid 2002), pp. 310–371. 6 Cohen Skalli, Isaac Abravanel: Letters, pp. 90–91. 7 On the new figure of the Renaissance leader, see Q. Skinner, The Foundation of Modern Political Thought (Cambridge 1998), pp. 69–138.

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If we turn now to Abravanel’s Hebrew and Jewish works, things look different. We do find elaborated discourses on fortune, which take the form of long astrological discussions. Yet these discussions are balanced— much more than in the Portuguese letter—by a discourse on providence, which stresses the specificity of Jewish history and its exceptional position regarding the rule of fortune. Already in his first opus, ‫( עטרת זקנים‬Ateret Zekenim) (Crown of Elders), written in the mid-1460s, Abravanel develops at length his conception of fortune and providence, which in fact, is the core of the book itself. In Chapter 11, he affirms that, according to the doctrine of the first sages (harishonim) and according to the truth (haemet beazmo), “all the nations in their country are under the rule of the stars and each nation has its own star in the sky.”8 He then writes “astral bodies influence and guide human affairs, primarily in the birth and death of man since the astral bodies put the elements in motion, bring about their composition and pour in the composed beings the capacity and the conditions to receive their form.” He adds “as birth and death are determined by the movement of the astral bodies, it follows necessarily that most of human qualities and events will be determined by the movements of these astral bodies.” This way, each nation, each country, and even each city is affected by the astral constellation of the moment. This astrological view is of course an explanation and a rationalisation of the contingency of human life. Abravanel refers to the same human condition, to the same fortune, as in the Portuguese letter but this time from a cosmological point of view. It is important to stress that astral influence in Abravanel’s thought is never deterministic; it sets up a limited series of options but never annihilates human choice and freedom. Indeed man, according to Abravanel, is not only composed of material elements, but also of a soul of intellectual nature that delivers him from the determinism of natural influences and connects him to the separated intellects. In Chapter 12,9 Abravanel explains that there is an anomaly in the astrological system he just presented. This anomaly is Israel, which is the only nation whose destiny is not determined by a specific astral body, but by divine providence. Abravanel makes huge efforts to integrate this anomaly into the astrological system outlined in Chapter 11. His main argument is that the cosmological system is linked to God the Creator,

8 Abravanel, Ateret Zekenim (Jerusalem 1994), pp. 61–62 [Hebrew]. 9 Ibid., pp. 63–71.



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and that this link does not express itself in a general dependence of each level of the system to God, but in a special relationship to God that is unique at each level. Israel is in the sub-lunar world—the privileged part that God influences directly and that can also connect itself directly to God. The tension between astral influence and divine providence seems perfectly harmonised, until the last page of the chapter ruins this harmony by introducing a new factor, the exile of Israel, which drastically diminishes the divine influence over its destiny and submits it to foreign, and often hostile, astral influences. To respond to this challenging situation, Abravanel depicts the figure of the angel Michael, who becomes the temporary astral protector of Israel. This strange chapter highlights the problem with which Abravanel is confronted. The history of Israel is first a history where divine providence plays a central role, but with the exile, it has entered the normal interplay of natural influences. Abravanel does not want to lose the specificity and superiority of the divine history of Israel, but he also cannot deny its present integration—or fall—into the general history of the nations. The concrete situation of the Jews must therefore be interpreted in terms of both fortune and providence. We see with this short discussion in Abravanel’s first opus that a certain interpretation of human existence—both individual and collective—through the motive of divine providence is a central aspect in his communication with Jewish readers. This dimension is absent from the Portuguese letter, which is addressed to a Christian. This discourse on providence was supposed to function both as a common cultural ground between the author and his readers, and as a vehicle for expressing new ideas. In 1483, Isaac Abravanel was accused by King João II of Portugal of having taken part in a plot against him.10 He succeeded in fleeing to Castile, and there began to write the first part of his long commentary of the Former Prophets.11 He finished it in Naples in 1493, where he found refuge after having been expulsed from Castile. The whole commentary deals in different ways with the question of how a leader and a people can lose or regain the connection to God.12 It is clear that the catalyst for this new

10 On this episode, see E. Lipiner, Two Portuguese Exiles in Castile: Dom David Negro and Dom Isaac Abravanel (Jerusalem 1997). 11 Abravanel, Commentary on Former Prophets (Jerusalem 1965) [Hebrew]. 12 C. Cohen Skalli, “Abravanel’s Commentary on the Former Prophets: Portraits, SelfPortraits, and Models of Leadership,” Jewish History (2009), pp. 255–280.

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reflection on divine providence is Abravanel’s personal misfortune in Portugal, compounded by the tragedy that befell Spanish Jewry in 1492. Having this in mind, I would like to deal with Abravanel’s long discussion of Solomon’s wisdom. Abravanel describes in detail King Solomon’s perfect knowledge of physics, astronomy, astrology, metaphysics, politics, economics, and Jewish exegesis. In his discussion of Solomon’s knowledge of metaphysics, Abravanel describes his understanding of the Separated Intellects. He then embarks on a long discussion of Solomon’s knowledge of poetry. Indeed, Solomon knows how to use poetry and musical harmony to make the Separated Intellects bring their special influence to bear on the cosmos and on history. Solomon reached the intellectual perfection of the existence and truth of the separated intellects . . . he knew to distinguish between them and to order them according to their level of perfection . . . He succeeded even to know their effect and power to guide the course of the lower beings . . . Solomon composed many poems (shirim) on the wisdom of the separated intellects ‘and his songs were a thousand and five’ [1 Kgs 5.12], which means five thousand, the habit of the ancients was to speak of divine matters in poems. It seems that he composed such a great number of songs to all the celestial angels [sarim]. He wrote one special song for each celestial angel, a song appropriate to the nation each angel is ruling, adapted to his special function. He made the Song of Songs especially for God’s rule over Israel . . . He succeeded in knowing the ways and means to bring down the influx of each angel on the people he ruled . . .13

It appears that this idea was borrowed from Ficino’s theory of astrological music. Abravanel relies on the notion that poetical and musical harmony correspond to the mathematical harmony between the heavenly bodies, and that this correspondence can affect celestial beings and bring down their influx.14 Here we have a remarkable example of how Abravanel’s ongoing reflection on fortune and providence served as a medium for the assimilation of humanistic ideas. This text shows that King Solomon was a master of both astral magic and Jewish magic. It also reveals that discourses on astrology and divine providence were sometimes very close, and that the main issue at stake was the effect on Jewish history; it was less important to make a strong distinction between Renaissance astrology and magic, and Jewish wisdom. This was, of course, a strategy of

13 Former Prophets, p. 475. 14 On music and harmony in Renaissance Platonism, see D.P. Walker, Spiritual and Demonic Magic, From Ficino to Campanella (Pennsylvania 2000), pp. 3–29.



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assimilation that both disclosed and dissimulated the humanistic origin of the borrowed ideas, but also tried to demark Jewish thought or tradition from the borrowed source. Another remarkable text—Naḥalat Avot, a commentary on Pirkei Avot—appeared a few years later, in June 1496.15 Here, Abravanel devotes a very long discussion to a series of sentences uttered by Rabbi Akiva (Mishnah Avot 3.13–16), especially the sentence “all is foreseen and still freedom of choice is given.”16 Abravanel develops a very interesting conception of human freedom based on the idea of the image of God (tselem elohim). That man was created in the image of God means both that man is an image of the cosmos, a microcosm, and that God created the universe from a certain spiritual representation of it, a certain intelligible model of the world, which Abravanel designates with the Hebrew word tsiur (picture, in the sense here of intelligible model). Man is therefore created in the image of this primordial image of the world. This image is also the Torah itself, given by God to the people of Israel. During this long discussion, which clearly intends to stress the dignity of man, or in Abravanel’s word yoqer ma’alato, he sets up a fascinating series of reflections: God, the cosmos, man, the Torah are all reflections of the same primordial image of the universe. The Neoplatonic and Florentine flavor of the conception is clear. The last part of Abravanel’s discussion is surely the most interesting. It focuses on the tension between God’s creative image of the world (tsiur), which contains also all human history, and human freedom, which results from man’s dualistic nature. Man has to choose because his nature is both intellectual and material, he is subject both to physical and intellectual causality. Human freedom must be understood in this text as an existential dramatisation of God’s static image of the world, in the sense that man has to choose between the higher part and the lower part of his nature. He has to reaffirm the hierarchy between different elements of the cosmos, as reflected in God’s image of the world. In a sense, the destiny of God’s creation hangs in the balance of human choice. By his right choice or his wrong choice, man materialises God’s intelligible image of the world or else he destroys it.

15 Pirkei Avot im perush hanesher hagadol rabenu Moshe Ben Maimon veim Nahalat Avot mehasar hagadol rabenu Don Yizhaq Abarbanel (New York 1953). 16 Ibid., pp. 163–209.

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This tribute to human freedom, written a few years after the Expulsion, was meant to arouse the will and the intellect of the Spanish exiles so that they could discover within themselves the capacity to overcome the vicissitudes of fortune and reconnect to divine providence. The tension exposed here between physical and intellectual causality in Jewish existence and history is a new elaboration of the duality of fortune and providence that unites human freedom and providence through the motif of the image of the world present in both man and God. The list of similar discussions where Abravanel interprets human existence in terms of fortune and providence is long. These discussions are often occasions to borrow humanistic ideas, but also to reaffirm the superiority of Judaism over its cultural environment. This mode of assimilation was quite successful, and it allowed Abravanel a dual discourse—one in Portuguese, Spanish, or Italian that demonstrates his cultural integration with the Christians, and another in Hebrew, creating a new apologetics of Judaism with the help of humanistic concepts. Such an attitude had complex implications: it opened Jewish elites to Renaissance culture and to an authentic dual-cultural experience, but it limited Hebrew and Jewish literature to an updated apologetic, and did not allow a full-fledged use of the new humanistic forms of expression. As a result, the humanistic revolution took place within the personalities of Jews like Isaac Abravanel, but not within their Hebrew writings.

Jews and the Grain, Oil and Wine Trades in 15th- and 16th-Century Apulia Cesare Colafemmina The Jews of Apulia plied most trades over the course of their history: those involved in commerce dealt with a wide range of goods, as determined by need or taste. Merchants and traders placed the highest priority on supplying basic foodstuffs, especially those that were seen in the Bible as being precious gifts from God: i.e., bread, oil, and wine. In the Psalm cited below, these foods appear in a gradatio, proceeding from the least necessary needed to that which is absolutely essential to life: You make the grass grow for the cattle, and plants for man to cultivate, that he may bring forth food from the earth: wine that gladdens the heart of man; oil, to make his face to shine; and bread to strengthen man’s heart. (Ps 104:14–15)

The present contribution will keep to the following order: i.e., bread, oil, and wine, corresponding to the volume in which they were traded. Grain Medieval Apulia was divided into three provinces: Terra di Bari, or central Apulia; Terra d’Otranto, or southern Apulia; and Capitanata, also known as Tavoliere1 or northern Apulia. In Terra di Bari, the most fertile lands were found in the areas of Andria and Canosa; the port towns of ­Barletta and Trani served as storage and trading centres. Terra d’Otranto was

1 The name Tavoliere comes from the Latin Tabulae censuariae, tables on which the Romans classified the areas devoted to sheep rearing or agriculture. From the Middle Ages on, the official name of the province has been Capitanata, originally Catepanata, because under the Byzantines it was ruled by a catepano, whose name literally meant “[the one] placed at the top.” The word was Latinised as capetanus/catepan, and its meaning was identified with that of the late Latin “capitaneus,” captain. The names of the other two provinces come from those of their main towns.

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extensive cultivated; the Capitanata was an immense granary and Lucera, Troia, Cerignola and Manfredonia were the province’s trading centres.2 One of the first sources documenting Jewish dealings in the grain trade leads to Spinazzola—on the border between northern Apulia and ­Basilicata—where already in Roman times, large estates were interspersed with villae and farms employed mainly with growing cereals and raising sheep. A certain Cambeus iudeus is mentioned among the dealers involved in grain and barley sales carried out on 22 March 1275 by order of King Charles I of Anjou.3 In 1404, Abraham of Otranto, living in the southernmost part of Apulia under an agreement made with Tomaso Mocenigo, duke of Candia, sent via his brother a delivery of 1,800 tomoli of grain from Lecce to Candia, the modern island of Crete or Iraklion.4 There is significant documentation on the participation of Jews in the most important markets of the grain trade in northern Apulia during the 15th and 16th centuries. In 1482, the banker and merchant Angelo de Benevento appeared before the Camera Summarie to undertake a grain shipment being sent to Naples by Simeon de Guglielmo, a Jew from San Severo.5 Later the same year, on 29 October, the Summaria ordered the captain of San Severo to return to Simeone de Gugliemo what had been seized from him to pay duties that the captain alleged the Jew owned for an amount of grain he had bought there. But the Jew maintained he was 2 On Apulian agriculture and trade of its products from the Middle Ages to the Modern Age, see P. Dalena (ed.), Mezzogiorno rurale. Olio, vino e cereali nel Medioevo (Bari 2010); R. Licinio, Uomini e terre nella Puglia meridionale dagli Svevi agli Aragonesi (Bari 1983); G. Poli, “Il paesaggio agrario di Terra di Bari”, Il ciclo della produzione dell’olio e del vino, S. Pansini (ed.) (Sammichele di Bari 2009), 1, pp. 45–75; id., “Le città costiere pugliesi nel sistema del commercio adriatico di Età moderna. Linee di tendenza e ipotesi di ricerca,” Towns and Communications, Proceedings of the Meetings  of the International Commission for the History of Towns (ICHT), H. Houben and K. Toomaspoeg (eds.) (London 2007, Lecce 2008, Galatina 2011), 2, pp. 313–344. 3 J. Mazzoleni (ed.), Registri della Cancelleria Angioina, XIV (Naples 1961), p. 111, n. 37. 4 A. Stussi, “Un nuovo documento di veneziano coloniale,” Studi mediolatini e volgari, 29 (1982–83), pp. 165–173. A tomolo corresponded to about 46 kilograms. Other weights and measures: carro (cartload), at Barletta = 48 tomoli; salma (for oil) = 10 staia = kg. 160, 3795; salma (for wine), at Giovinazzo = kg. 174. See L. Palumbo, “Pesi e misure in Terra di Bari nella documentazione d’archivio”, Studi bitontini I (1998), n, 65, pp. 25–38. Money: 1 ounce = 6 ducats; 1 ducat = 5 tarì = 10 carlini = 100 grana. 5 A. Silvestri, “Gli ebrei nel Regno di Napoli durante la dominazione aragonese,” Campania sacra 18 (1987), p. 45. The Camera Summarie (1444–1806) was an administrative, judicial, and consultative body in the Kingdom of Naples. The Camera examined the accounts of the Royal Treasury, the provincial collectors, and all other officials who were entrusted with public money. It checked the accounts of the public administrators relating to the taxation of the communes and protected the local communities against abuses from barons and governors.



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not bound to pay such duties by force of “a privilege or a true citizenship charter” granted by the king to the Jews. On 31 August 1487, the Summaria wrote to the captain of the same town to press for a long-delayed delivery of six and a half carri of barley from Cola de Massese to the Jew Solomon.6 In 1504, in Lucera, a nearby town, the Camera Summarie intervened in favour of Master Iacob’s heirs, who failed to recover the money they were owned for grain sold to some local people. The governor of Lucera was to summon the debtors to ascertain the reasons for their being in arrears, and then judge according to justice.7 The main locale for the storage and export of grain was Manfredonia, a town founded on the gulf of the same name in the second half of the 13th century by the inhabitants of the nearby city of Siponto, which had fallen into ruin because of war and natural calamities. In 1487, Dionisio de Florio and his partners, all descendants of neophytes from the Angevin period, and the Jew Masello, were licensed to export 100 carri of grain to other ports throughout the kingdom.8 In the same year, in the port of Bari, Lazzaro Iudeo de Baro arranged a shipment of grain for delivery to Venice and Trani on behalf of his coreligionist, Lazzaro Paduano of Trani.9 Much of Manfredonia’s grain was exported to Ragusa, known today as Dubrovnik. In 1510, Master Mele of Manfredonia, using a boat belonging to Tommaso de Nicolò from Ragusa Vecchia, shipped a cargo of 14 carri and 24 tomoli of grain, which was to be delivered to the Dalmatian city, but the vessel sank in the Manfredonia port and the entire cargo was lost. By an act of good will on the part of the Camera Summarie, Master Mele was allowed to recover just the amount of the tratta, corresponding to the tax he had paid to export the grain.10 Another merchant, who traded in the grain market in nearby Barletta, was the aforementioned Lazzaro Paduano of Trani, as attested by a loan deed drawn up in Monopoly on 10 January 1508 between some citizens from Putignano—southeast of Bari—acting on behalf of the commune and the Jewish merchant Angelo Benvenisti. The sum of money involved 6 C. Colafemmina, Documenti per la storia degli ebrei in Puglia nell’Archivio di Stato di Napoli (Cassano Murge 2009), pp. 46–47, n. 19; 61, n. 36. 7 Ibid., p. 209, n. 221. 8 C. Salvati (ed.), Fonti aragonesi, VI (Naples 1968), p. 22. Many descendants of 13thcentury New Christians were grain traders in Manfredonia and Trani. See cited work, ­passim. 9 Fonti aragonesi, VI, pp. 70, 72–75. 10 Colafemmina, Documenti, pp. 232–235, nn. 246, 248.

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was considerable, 30 ounces of silver carlins, and was to be repaid by the following Christmas. That was the amount due for seven and a half carri of speccheratum, i.e., grain still on the ear, which was sold by Angelo to the commune of Putignano and which was delivered in Barletta by ­Paduano.11 From the quittance attached to the document’s margin by Angelo himself in 1508, we know that the debt was actually honoured. It is worth noting the procedure followed to attest full payment of the debt. In fact, in his quittance, Angelo Benvenisti clearly states that he had received the entire amount from the commune of Putignano, so he considers the document estromento irrito casso et sigato (i.e., to be null and void, cancelled and torn). That means that the document—as further confirmed by medieval chartae—was no longer of any value, given the defeasance of its legal contents. Angelo signified this by cutting off the parchment’s top margin, next to the cross mark of the symbolic invocation. So the document, originally drawn up at the request of the creditor (ad requisitionem dicti creditoris) and now containing the quittance for the debtor, is returned to the commune of Putignano, in whose archives it is still kept. Another parchment provides us with an opportunity to see how the folio was actually cut to make the document null. In fact, the quittance formula, analogous to that described above, is followed by this original and explicit statement: Io Angelo Benivinisti professo averi taliato la testa a lo sopiradito estromento perché ò riceputo tota la quantità che se conteni in lo sopiradito estromento et da ogi avanzi lo dao per irito et casso et per fedi de l’anima mia sontu eschrito de mia mano peropia, that is: “I, Angelo Benvenisti, profess that I myself have cut off the top of the present document after receiving full payment of the amount contained in the aforesaid instrument and from today onwards, I consider it annulled and cancelled, and in faith of my soul I wrote this with my own hand.” In fact, the top of the document was removed but carefully preserved by representatives of the Putignano commune, and was attached to the bottom margin of the document using a hempen cord.12 It should be noted that each party who sealed a deed in the presence of a notary took an oath that conformed to his religious beliefs, as can be seen in a deed drawn up and notarised in Barletta on 7 March 1524.

11 A. D’Itollo, “Fonti per la storia degli ebrei a Monopoli: tre documenti inediti del secolo XVI,” Sefer Yuhḥasin 6 (1990), pp. 9–17, doc. 1. 12 Ibid., p. 20. doc. 3.



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In that deed, Magister Angelus Levi hebreus, living in Barletta, his wife Iusta de Moyse, and his son David, undertook to pay Iacobo Suppa the sum of 124 ducats and four tarì due for six carri of grain and eight carri of barley by the following April. The grain was bought at 12 ducats per carro and the barley at six ducats and three tarì. Iusta was acting with the consent and the permission of her husband Angelo, her son David and her stepson Musei Levi. As a further guarantee for the seller, the purchasers designated the Christian nobleman Oduardo Bonello from Barletta as their guarantor. Each party swore in accordance with his own faith, the debtors on the Mosaic Law, by touching a quill pen with their hands, and the guarantor on God’s Holy Gospels (Iuraverunt videlicet dicti debitores super Legem Moysi tacto manibus calamo et dictus fideiussor ad sancta Dei Evangelia).13 Moving southwards, along the border between Apulia and Basilicata, there is also evidence in Matera, a town that was then part of Apulia, of the involvement of its entire small Jewish community in the grain trade. A relevant figure was Master David from Tricarico who, in 1482, purchased for two ounces from Angelo di Leone from Cassano a grain storage pit located in Matera, in a site called Lo Lombardo, in the neighbourhood of the San Lorenzo Church.14 In 1493, a dispute arose between the Jewish community and the local authorities, together with some private citizens who sought to revise the privileges granted to the Jews by King Ferrrante I of Aragon. The Camera Summarie acceded to the Jews’ appeal and ordered the authorities not to make any changes and to comply in full with the privileges that were in place. The following year, the Summaria intervened in favour of Samuel de Lione from Lecce, who was being forced by the commune to deliver 12 carri of grain in compliance with a commission that he claimed had already been fulfilled.15 Such controversies did not impair the basically good relationships between the Jewish community and the town, as was apparent when, in 1495, the soldiers of Charles VIII of France, campaigning to conquer the Kingdom of Naples, arrived in Matera. On that occasion, a French soldier helped the nobleman Troiano Pappacoda, who sided with the 13 C. Colafemmina, G. Dibenedetto (eds.), Gli Ebrei in Terra di Bari durante il Viceregno spagnolo. Saggio di ricerche archivistiche (Bari 2003), pp. 128–129, n. 4. 14 G. Fortunato, Badie, feudi e baroni della Valle di Vitalba, T. Pedio (ed.) (Manduria 1968), III, p. 389, n. 397. 15 Colafemmina, Documenti, pp. 122–123, doc. 113; pp. 175–176, doc. 181.

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French, to seize 25 carri of grain belonging to some Jews and some Christians. After this incident, the French soldiers and the new king’s commissaries planned to sack the Jews’ houses and to expel all Jews from the town. But the local authorities hurried to denounce both the robbery of the Jews and the nefarious plan against them to the new king, stressing that such actions would be greatly detrimental to the whole city. Charles VIII acceded to the appeal and on 28 March 1495, ordered his lieutenant Gabriele de Albret to ensure the restitution of the grain or its equivalent amount, and to provide for the protection of the Jews living in the town and its district against anyone intending to molest them.16 A similar event did not end so favourably in Gravina. The best-known victim of the 1495 troubles was Mometto di master Bonifacio, grandson of Messer David Calonimos, a personal physician of Ferrante I of Aragon. His house was attacked and robbed of all valuables: four carri of grain, six chests full of clothes and linens, money and silver objects. When the Aragonese regained power, he tried to regain possession of his belongings, but was told that they were nowhere to be found. It transpired that, to avoid bloodshed when the loot was shared out among the thieves, the authorities had bestowed the goods upon the cathedral, which used the money to repair damages caused by the 1456 earthquake.17 The Abravanels, in particular, took an interest in the grain trade. On 8 April 1507, for instance, the Camera Summarie ordered the lieutenant of Bari, Pasquale Fanelli, to submit a detailed report about his delivery of 37 carri and 18 tomoli of grain to Roberto de Borlazzo of Bergamo by order of the master portolano (sea customs officer) on behalf of the Abravanels, who, however, maintained that they owed the Court just 31 carri and 18 tomoli of grain, as they had purchased the remaining six carri at their own expense to complete the cargo.18 At the same time, the Camera was dealing with a case concerning the Abravanels with regard to a cargo of grain they had purchased from the Royal Court while the Grand Captain, Consalvo de Cordova, was encamped near Taranto. In 1538, Samuel Abravanel, together with his partners Moyse Alfa from San Severo and Maumecto from Lucera, purchased about 51 carri of grain at the San Giovanni Rotondo fair (which was then called the St. Onofrio fair and was held on 11 June). The transaction was done in accordance 16 F.P. Volpe, Esposizione di talune iscrizioni esistenti in Matera e della vicende degli Ebrei nel nostro reame (Naples 1844), pp. 17–20. 17 Colafemmina, Documenti, pp. 193–195, doc. 206. 18 Ibid., p. 216. doc. 226.



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with the voce de’ generi rules, which were adopted by the fair and which, on the whole, allowed a reasonable discount on the price of the grain. But on that occasion, several farmers (massari) from Foggia protested to the Udienza (Court) of Capitanata against the grain and barley quotations. As a result, the provincial governor issued a ruling on 6 November and adjusted the price to 10 and a half ducats for a carro of grain and six ducats for a carro of barley. The three Jewish traders felt their interests were damaged by that ruling and petitioned the viceroy, stating that on fair days, grain had been selling at eight ducats per carro and that a good many farmers had already delivered their grain at that price; the subsequent price increase, brought in against all custom, had harmed the petitioners. They requested that the Sacro Regio Consiglio di Santa Chiara, the supreme appeal court, abrogate the sentence because it was issued unjustly, without summoning or hearing the petitioners. The viceroy acceded to the appeal and on 3 December definitively referred the case to the Consiglio di Santa Chiara to deal with it summarie, simpliciter et de plano, according to a procedure to the merchants’ liking. On 16 December, the President of the Consiglio di Santa Chiara appointed the councillor Nicola Maiorana as spokesman and charged him with making due enquiries and reporting back to the Consiglio. Among the people summoned to “appear” in the enquiry, apart from the governors and officials of the province of Capitanata, were citizens from Lucera, Troia, and Alberona. The case dragged on until April 1540, when it was handed over to the councillor Marino Frezza; on 3 September 1540 he stated that the Abravanels had failed to submit the appropriate arguments and documents within the due terms, and upheld the sentence issued by the Royal Court of Capitanata in November 1538.19 On the strength of a special privilege granted to their family, the Abravanels retained their grain trade in that northernmost part of Apulia, even after the 31 October 1541 deadline fixed by Emperor Charles V for the Jews’ departure from southern Italy. In fact, in 1543, Samuel Abravanel purchased 20 carri of grain from some private citizens in Termoli—a town that belonged then to Apulia but is now part of neighbouring Molise. As he meant to export the grain out of the kingdom, through his agent 19 F. Patroni Griffi, “Una controversia tra Samuele Abravanel e i massari di Foggia (1538–1540),” Sefer Yuhḥasin 13 (1997), pp. 35–44. Marino Frezza was a famous jurist who was appointed in 1539 by Charles V to serve as his councillor. In 1560, for violating the secrecy which was required of judges, he was deprived by Philip II of his gown, chair and honours. He died in Naples in 1564.

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Gabriel Isaac, he asked the Camera Summarie for the privilege granted to Termoli with regard to grain produced in its territory and in its district. The privilege consisted of the remission of half the customs duties (tratta) on the grain to be exported, even though the export was carried out by foreigners. The Camera acceded to the request and ordered the master portolano to provide Don Samuel with protection and to see that he was not harassed and was treated as a Neapolitan citizen.20 The Court resorted to the proceeds from export duties on grain to honour a credit claimed by Letizia Abravanel, the widow of Josef Abravanel. On 13 May 1543, the viceroy had allowed her, as repayment of her credit, to export quantities of foodstuffs and grain, the duties on which amounted to the loan of 4,000 ducats. This was done even though the agreement made between the Royal Court and the merchants regarding the deadline for exporting grain—at a time during which Naples was suffering a severe grain shortage—had expired. In any case, the goods could be exported to allies and other countries that maintained friendly relations with the Royal Majesty. At the same time, however, the Court had incurred a new heavy debt to the merchants Alessandro Capponi and Angelo Biffoli from Florence, and had also guaranteed its repayment through the remission of export duties and the assurance that no one else, despite enjoying various privileges, would be allowed to export grain. In any case, that very Court, derogating from the assurance and coming to an agreement made with the two Florentine partners, ordered that the nobleman Francesco Nuti should be allowed, on behalf of the Abravanels, to export from the ports and the warehouses throughout the kingdom—except the province of Terra di Lavoro—a quantity of foodstuffs amounting to 4000 ducats of export duties, the sum owed to Letizia Abravanel.21 The big traders procured goods in the major production areas and then resold them. But there were also traders who consistently dealt in smaller quantities of grain. Often, an agreement was made on the basis of a loan that enabled a farmer to meet his personal, social and fiscal obligations. The repayment was made through the exchange of agricultural products such as grain, oil, wine and almonds. Payments in kind were also arranged by Jewish landowners who drew up sharecropping agreements 20 F. Patroni Griffi, “Documenti inediti sulle attività economiche degli Abravanel in Italia meridionale (1492–1543),” Rassegna Mensile di Israel 63 (1997), pp. 35–37. doc. II. 21 Ibid., pp. 32–33, 37–38, doc. III. For the complex interplay of the tratte in the grain trade in Sicily, also involving the Jews, see A. Scandaliato, “Gli Ebrei nel commercio siciliano del grano nel XV secolo,” Matera giudaica 13 (2008), pp. 169–177.



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with farmers. The landowner provided the land, some seeds, and part of the ploughing and sowing expenses. Crops were then divided (ad medietatem) between the parties. Agrarian loans also took the form of rentals of work animals, such as oxen, horses and mules. This activity was prevalent in the peripheral towns and villages of Bari, where the Jews possessed stockyards of work animals that they rented out annually in return for payment in grain. The following example is just one of hundreds. On 7 January 1491 in Bitetto, Leonectus Zizus from Bari stated he had been fully repaid by Giovanni di Nicola Leonardo from Bitetto for the oxen, mules and horses he had rented him in return for grain, except for a mare that Giovanni was still keeping, and for 13 tomoli of grain due on a previous rental. He swore on the rod of Aaron, according to Jewish custom, by touching the quill pen. The deed was drawn up in the residence of the Bitetto captain (Iuravit more iudeorum super virga Aronis calamo tacto etc. in salecta domorum solite residencie capitanei Bitecti).22 Olive Oil Just as for grain, the Jews in Apulia were merchants, not producers, of oil. One exception may have occurred in the territory of Molfetta, where, in 1197, Senior son of Jacob, a Jew from Trani, bought an estate with 24 olive trees adjoining an olive grove that belonged to the bishopric of Molfetta. The creation of the closoria Iudeorum, or “Jews’ enclosure,” may be traced back to the same period. The closoria was located on the way from Molfetta to Bitonto, a town in Apulia renowned for its olive trees and its oil. The “enclosure of the Jews,” a large estate with olive trees, is mentioned in the Liber Appretii of Molfetta in 1417. In the early 15th century, it was no longer in the possession of Jews.23 We do not know when and how it passed into Christian hands, although it could have happened at the end of the 13th century, when the Angevins’ proselytising attempts left the Jews of the kingdom the alternative of abjuration or exile. We have evidence of Jewish converts to Christianity in Molfetta in 1294. In nearby Trani that same year, there were 310 New

22 ASBa, not. Antonino de Iuliano, prot. a. 1490, foll. 179r–180r. 23 C. Colafemmina, Ebrei e cristiani novelli in Puglia. Le comunità minori (Bari 1991), pp. 61–65.

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Christians.24 If the enclosure belonged to the community of Trani, which probably used olive oil to light the lamps in the synagogues, the ownership of the olive grove would have passed naturally to the Church. If the enclosure was privately owned, the transfer of property was probably a “gift” made to the local church of Molfetta or of Trani. Such gifts were given by Neophytes to prevent the inquisitors from seizing the real estate of those they suspected of being crypto-Jews. In this way, the property was counted as belonging to the Church, but the previous owners could continue cultivating the lands and enjoying their produce, while paying an annual rent to the Church.25 In 1700, in fact, the olive grove of the former Jews figured among the possessions of the Molfetta Cathedral Chapter. Oil was traded in many ways. Out of hundreds of contracts, we chose some examples, one of the most common of which was the repayment of loans with oil. For instance, on 10 September 1437 in Palo del Colle, ­Filippo de Nicola pledged to deliver in January to Iosep son of Master Isaac, a Jew of Bari, a quantity of olive oil worth two ounces and five tarì, an amount already paid by Iosep. The quantity of oil to be delivered would be determined by the current price on the Bari market at harvest time. The creditor reserved the right to demand repayment in cash in the event that the price did not seem to be profitable.26 Don Iacob Abravanel’s heirs, through their agent Don Moyse Salfati of Naples, also accepted oil in repayment of loans.27 There are instances of oil purchased from Jews against payment in cash. On 10 February 1463, Sanctorus de Iosep Sacerdos, Iosep Rusellus, Palumbus Gausii Obesso of Lecce, citizens of Bitonto, promised to pay—by the following March—the sum of 41 ounces to the nobleman Christopher di Lillo, due for the purchase of 41 salme of oil. Payment could be made in coins of the late King Robert of Anjou, in Venetian ducats, or in carlins of the late King Alfonso of Aragon (uncias quatragentis unam de carlenis

24 N. Ferorelli, Gli ebrei nell’Italia meridionale dall’età romana al secolo XVIII (Turin 1915), pp. 46, 55. 25 The practice is attested in Bari in the years 1301–1304. See C. Colafemmina, “La Basilica e gli Ebrei,” in San Nicola di Bari e la sua basilica. Culto, arte, tradizione, G. Otranto (ed.) (Milan 1987), pp. 206–209. 26 C. Colafemmina, P. Corsi, G. Dibenedetto (eds.), La presenza ebraica in Puglia. Fonti documentarie e bibliografiche (Bari 1981), pp. 13–18. 27 Ebrei in Terra di Bari durante il Viceregno, p. 59, n. 127 (Bari, 31 October 1527); n. 128 (Bari, 4 November 1527).



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condam bone memorie regis Roberti vel de ducatis Venetis vel de carlenis condam regis Alfonsi).28 The following are instances of bulk purchases of oil, which was then resold at retail prices. On 1 December 1507, Moyses de Bona Struga purchased in Bitonto, from the nobleman Giovanni Francesco de Labinis and Nicola Maria Scaragio, 16 salme of oil and paid in advance for the oil to be delivered in January. On 8 February 1508, Antonio Pilacarnis purchased six salme of oil from Moyses de Bona Struga; the following day Silvestro de Nitto purchased three salme and on 12 April, Thommaso Maria de Valerianis purchased six and a half salme.29 Edible oil had to be claro, puro et zalino, “clear, pure, and pale.” But the Jews also traded in discarded oil. For example, on 23 October 1472, Perfectus Andrectus, a Jew from Lecce and a citizen and resident in Trani, promised to pay by the Trani fair the following January the sum of three ounces to Francesco Quarto, the commendatory abbot of St. Leo in Bitonto, for four salme of second-rate oil, which was mainly used in soap making.30 The Jews of Trani plied that trade, as illustrated by a 1475 document in which a Jew from Trani, Gaudio de Perfecto, appealed against the customs officer and the custodians of the municipal warehouse, who wanted to make him pay dues on the large quantities of discarded oil he delivered to Trani to make soap. Such oils, Gaudio said, were exempt from taxes, which were instead paid for by soap exports. The Camera Summarie acceded to his petition and ruled in his favour.31 Another area of Apulia with extensive olive groves was (and still is) Terra d’Otranto, especially its southernmost part. Two documents attest to the Jews’ involvement in the oil trade there. The first, dated 27 October 1509, is an order from the Consiglio Collaterale to the Marquis of Padula to settle the lawsuit between Iaco Coduto from Lecce and Mactia Musarò from Gallipoli, who, according to the Jew’s claims, owed him 530 staia of oil that Daniel, the late father of Iaco, had sold to Musarò. The second document, dated 8 November of the same year, was an order to make inquiries into a suit filed by Salomon Nachamulli concerning a debt of 300 staia of oil that the Jew claimed from Francisco de Tareno, who had been castellan in Otranto during the Venetian rule of the city (1495–1508). When 28 ASBa, not. Pascarello de Tauris, reg. 1462–1463. See F. Carabellese, La Puglia nel secolo XV da fonti inedited (Bari 1901–1907), I, p. 181. 29 Ibid., p. 138, n. 10; p. 139, n. 13; pp. 140–41, nn. 14, 16. 30 ASBa, Not. Pascarello de Tauris, prot. aa. 1472–1473, fol. 14r. 31   Colafemmina, Documenti, pp. 36–37, doc. 9.

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Ferdinand the Catholic reinstated the town to the Kingdom of Naples in 1508, the Spanish confiscated everything that they believed was the property of the Venetians, including Nachamulli’s oil. Nacamulli petitioned the Consiglio Collaterale, asserting his ownership of the oil, and the Consiglio ordered an enquiry in order to issue a fair verdict.32 Wine Let us consider now the last of the three goods: wine. The Jews’ interest in wine is well known, and not just because its helps relieve aches and pains. Really, the pleasure induced by wine is second just to the delights of kisses and embraces (Song of Songs, 1:2). The most captivating trophy brought back to the Israelite camp by the spies Moses had sent to explore the Land of Canaan was an enormous bunch of grapes (Num. 13:23–24). An abundance of wine verging on waste will denote the messianic age (Gen. 49:9–12). According to some sages, in the world to come, “the wine stored in its grapes since the six days of creation” will be the reward God prepares for those who trust in Him (Isaiah 64:3; Berakhoth 34b). One of the greatest poets of Jewish Apulia, Amittay ben Shefatyah from Oria, wrote a poem about wine—the wine coming from his land and the surrounding area being renowned for its potency and sweetness. ­Amittay’s poem depicts a contest between the vine and the trees, which object to the vine’s haughtiness in praising the virtues of wine and its excellence over all other plants. The trees remind the vine of the harmful effects of wine with such strident arguments that the vine is forced to refrain from its pretensions and concede that wine, too, is to be taken in moderation and in due quantity. Once that acknowledgement is made, the trees leave off their quarrel and recognise the vine’s important role in life and rituals.33 It was because of the ritual use of wine (for Kiddush before Shabbat and festival meals) that Jews were so careful about its production and sale. We know that Amittay of Oria owned a vineyard, which he himself cultivated. In Molfetta there was a place called Lo palmento de li Iudei, 32 Ibid., pp. 225–228, doc. 238, 240. 33 Y. David, The Poems of Amittay (Jerusalem 1975), pp. 125–127 [Hebrew]; C. Cola­ femmina, “La contesa fra la vite e gli alberi di Amittay ben Shefatyah da Oria,” Percorsi di Storia ebraica. Atti del convegno internazionale, Cividale del Friuli—Gorizia, 7/9 settembre 2004, P.C. Ioly Zorattini (ed.), pp. 389–396.



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“palmento” meaning winepress.34 In 1441, the nuns of the Monastery of Saint Lucia of Barletta granted, on condition of a perpetual rent (census), to Iacoy named Fachi friscu, a Jew of Venosa living in Barletta, an extensive tract of land, agreeing that he and his heirs were obliged to cultivate it and plant a vineyard.35 The special attention to the kashrut of wine is apparent in a letter written by a nameless teacher from Tropea, in Calabria, addressed to an anonymous person, probably a rabbinic authority.36 The writer mentions that, when passing through Nicastro, he met a Jewish wine maker and merchant and discussed the kashrut of the wine with him. The merchant produced the wine from a non-Jewish vineyard and subsequently stored it in closed containers (barrels) in a cellar of a non-Jew. The question was whether the wine was yayin nèsech, that is wine produced (or even touched) by non-Jews and so forbidden for Jewish consumption. The anonymous sage responded that in this case, Jews could not drink the wine because a gentile person might have touched it. The encounter between the sage and the wine dealer in Nicastro took place in the period immediately following the Jews’ expulsion from Spain and Sicily in 1492. But we hear of Jewish wine dealers on the Tyrrenian side of central Calabria already a century and a half earlier. In April 1351, the Jew Xico de Mariffa exported a large quantity of red wine and fruit from San Lucido to Cagliari; that same month, Galluf, a Jew of Calabria, exported to Cagliari seven butts of red wine, and imported lead and hides to Calabria from Sardinia. In 1360 and in 1365, respectively, Elies Jueu Lati and Saquini Jueu lati imported wine from Tropea to Cagliari, where, in 1370, Abramunt de Abramunt of Nicotera had exported a large quantity of red wine from the island of Capri.37 In 1361, it was a Jew from Bari, Sussen de Baro, who exported wine and fabrics from Trapani to Cagliari.38

34 Colafemmina, Ebrei e cristiani novelli in Puglia, p. 63. Sometimes the palmentum indicates the wine-crushing vat. See A. Di Mauro, “La vite e il vino,” in Mezzogiorno rurale, pp. 204–214. 35 Codice Diplomatico Barlettano, S. Santeramo (ed.) (Barletta 1962), IV, p. 99, doc. 153. 36 A. David, “Jewish Intellectual Life in the Turn-of-the-Sixteenth-Century Kingdom of Naples According to Hebrew Sources,” Materia giudaica 11 (2006), p. 145. 37 C. Tasca, Gli ebrei in Sardegna nel XIV secolo. Società, cultura, istituzioni (Cagliari 1992), p. 325, doc. CXX; p. 329, doc. CXXIX; p. 371, doc. CCXVII; p. 422, doc. CCCIV; p. 489. doc. CDL. 38 Ibid., pp. 396–397, doc. CCLVII. Wine was high on the production and consumption list of Sicilian Jews. Nonetheless, in 1467, a shipment of wine was imported from Calabria to Sicily through Begnamino Muxa, a Jew of Tropea: Simonsohn, Jews in Sicily, p. 9574. The import of Calabrian wine was probably a result of its competitive price, or because

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In Apulia, unlike Calabria and Sicily, winemaking does not to seem to have been a major trade of the Jews. This can be inferred from those places for which we have a large number of notarial deeds dating from the 15th and 16th centuries. We shall mention some data indicative of the typology of contracts. On 23 August 1444, Iacobo de Genua and Masello of Falzamia, residents in Mola, promised to pay the Jew Garzono Zizo, resident in Rutigliano, one ounce and 20 tarì in return for a quantity of wine they had purchased at a price agreed on by the parties.39 On 16 June 1469, ­Francis de Aparma of Bitonto promised to pay the brothers Ysac and ­Marullo Vitalis of Bari the sum of one ounce and 20 tarì for the purchase of an ox by the feast of St. Leo of the following year. It was understood, however, that should the creditors then prefer to receive must (unfermented wine or new wine) instead of cash, he would give them at least three salme, at the price of must on the day of delivery.40 On 17 January 1525, Mastro Angelo de Troya, shoemaker, and his wife Antonella undertook to pay by the coming July the sum of 20 tarì to Magister Moyse, citizen and resident in Giovinazzo, which was owed for their purchase of a certain quantity of wine. At the creditor’s choice, they could give him, after harvesting their grapes, a quantity of must corresponding to the amount of their debt. A similar option is attested in Bari, where on 16 March 1540, Iacobo Calabrese and Pietro Giovanni de Rubo from Carbonara undertook to repay four and half ducats to Salamone Zizo, on the following terms: half the amount before the coming festivity of St. Leo, and the other half before the following September. The second instalment could consist of a corresponding quantity of must produced from their own vines, valued at its market price on the day of delivery.41 Of course, Jewish merchants resold the wine they received in payment of debts. So, in Giovinazzo, on 17 May 1538, Berardino Formoso and Gorgio De Lella acknowledged that they owed Magister Vitalis nine ducats, having purchased five salme of clear and aromatic wine (vini clari et odoriferi) from him; they undertook to settle the debt by the next Saint Martin’s fair (11 November). Should they fail to meet the deadline, they would be obliged to pay interest, according to the Jewish custom (interesse more

of a temporary shortage. On the involvement of Sicilian Jews in farming and in trading, see S. Simonsohn, Between Scylla and Charybdis. The Jews in Sicily (Leiden-Boston 2001), pp. 393–414. 39 Conversano, Archivio Vescovile, not. Antonello de Saladino, ff. 97v–98r. 40 ASBa, not. Pascarello de Tauris, prot. aa. 1468–1469, fol. 86r. 41 Ebrei in Terra di Bari, p. 119, n. 304. See also pp. 164–65, nn. 4, 8; p. 165, n. 8.



jews and the grain, oil and wine trades

35

ebreorum), of 25 grains per ounce a month, plus full repayment of the principal sum.42 A contract from Trani also attests to a case in which a debtor honoured his obligation through the pledge of a retail wine shop. On 15 December 1539, Gerolamo Marrone of Trani acknowledged that he owed Helia de Moyse 16 ducats, which he promised to pay in two annual instalments of eight ducats each. The payment was to be made as follows: in the coming September and in September of the following year, he was to deliver a butt of wine, equalling six salme, to the shop (magazenum) of Sciabadullus ebreus. The proceeds from the sale of the wine would be used to pay the two instalments into which the loan had been divided. The yearly proceeds exceeding the amount of eight ducats, corresponding to each instalment, were to be given to the debtor. Once the loan was repaid, the creditor, on behalf of himself and his son Rafael, was to give Marrone a receipt attesting to full payment and declaring him free from all obligations to them.43 Conclusions In Apulia, the role played by the Jews in the grain, oil and wine trades was essentially that of middlemen. They were not producers, except occasionally of wine, and perhaps of oil, and only in limited quantities for their own ritual needs. As for grain, a few communities specialised in baking and supplying Passover matzah shemurah, which is prepared from grain that has been under supervision since the time of harvest, to make sure that no moisture had touched it. Every step in the preparation of such matzah must be under the strict control of observant Jews. In northern Apulia, Troia was probably the main centre for baking matza shemura. In 1535, during an enquiry against Judaisers in the Adriatic town of Manfredonia, two Jews from Troia, Angelo de Abraham and Mahomet, were accused of providing matzot (“azimellis”) to the many neophytes there every year on Good Friday.44 It should be noted that in those years, there was also a Jewish community in Manfredonia.

42 Ibid., p. 167, n. 14. 43 Ibid., p. 185, n. 1. 44 G. Coniglio, “Ebrei e Cristiani a Manfredonia nel 1534,” Archivio Storico Pugliese 21 (1968), p. 68.

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Some of the Jews involved in the grain and oil trades were large-scale buyers and exporters—such as the Abravanels, who made their purchases in the major harvest and storage centres—but buying grain directly from large and small farmers at local fairs was also a common practice. Equally important were the medium-sized and small local markets, where grain was frequently delivered to Jews in payment for loans, and sometimes as a share of a sharecropping arrangement made for lands cultivated by Christians. The same applied to oil. These branches of Jewish trade were so profitable, both for the local economy in general and for the Jews, that in 1550, Pope Julius III prohibited the Jews of Benevento from dealing in grain or storing it in their homes or warehouses except to meet their own needs. Two years later, when the Jews found themselves unable to collect the 20-percent vigesima tax, the problem was resolved by granting the Jewish community of Benevento the right to accept grain in payment of debts and to resell it.45 It is worth noting that, as far as trading contracts (relating to grain or other commodities) were concerned, the buyers’ or sellers’ religion made no difference. One case has been reported in Rossano, a town in Calabria, where the Jew Simon di Dio appealed to the Camera Summarie against the local captain, who wanted to force him to assess the oil he owned his creditors at nine grains per miliaro and the oil to be sold to pay for his debts at only seven grains. The Camera wrote to the captain and ordered him to be impartial and to treat the Jew in accordance with justice.46 In Apulia, the market price of goods seems to have been the same for everyone. The only difference recorded in notarised contracts was that Christians took an oath on the Gospels, whereas Jews swore on the Torah of Moses.

45 S. Simonsohn, The Apostolic See and the Jews. Documents: 1546–1555 (Toronto 1990), pp. 2730–2733, n. 2912; p. 2813, n. 3055. 46 ASNa, Sommaria, Partium 32, 273v (18 February 1494).

Jewish Book Collection and Patronage in Renaissance Italy Andreina Contessa A rich tradition of decorating Hebrew manuscripts flourished in Italy during the Renaissance period, reaching its peak in the 15th and 16th centuries, when members of wealthy Jewish families commissioned lavishly illustrated works. The codices produced during those years, which include, among others, Hebrew prayer books,1 Haggadot2 and rabbinic writings such as Maimonides’ ‫( משנה תורה‬Mishneh Torah)3 and Jacob ben Asher’s ‫ארבעה טורים‬ (Arba’ah Turim),4 are splendid testimonies to Jewish life and culture in Renaissance Italy.5

1 See for example the Rothschild Mahzor, Jewish Theological Seminary Library (New York), Mic. 8892, Florence, c. 1492, for Elijah ben Joab of Vigevano, ben Abraham of the Gallico Family. G.D. Cohen, M. Schmelzer, and E.M. Cohen, Rothschild Mahzor: Florence, 1492 (New York 1983). See also the 15th-century mahzor at the Jerusalem Jewish University Library, MS Heb. 8 4450; M. Metzger, “Un mahzor italien enluminé du XVe siècle (Vol. I; Jerusalem, Bibl. Nat. et Univ., Ms. Heb. 8 4450. Vol. II; Jerusalem, coll. Weill),” Mitteilungen des Kunsthistorischen Institutes in Florenz (1979), 20/2, pp. 159–196. 2 See the Haggadah contained in the forementioned MS Heb. 8 4450, Metzger, “Un maḥzor italien enluminé du XVe siècle,” pp. 159–96; the Haggadah included in the Rothschild Miscellany, Israel Museum MS 180/51; the Haggadah included in a maḥzor dated 1520, Bibliothèque nationale de France (Paris), Fondation Smith-Lesouef, MS 250, fols. 108v–118; G. Sed-Rajna, Les manuscrits Hébreux enluminés des Bibliothèques de France (Paris 1994), p. 116; and a 15th-century Passover Haggadah from the Padua Mahzor, now in the Dorot Jewish Division of the New York Public Library. 3 Jerusalem, Jewish National and University Library MS Heb. 4, 1193, copied in Spain in the 14th century and illuminated in Perugia in the 15th century. B. Narkiss, Hebrew Illuminated Manuscripts (Jerusalem 1978), p. 134, pl. 47. See also a mid-15th century copy from Northern Italy, Vatican Library (Vatican City), MS Ross. 498; Rome to Jerusalem. Four Jewish Masterpieces from the Vatican Library, The Israel Museum 40 (2005). 4 Vatican Library (Vatican City), MS Ross. 555, Mantua, 1435; Narkiss, Hebrew Illuminated Manuscripts, p. 136, pl. 48. 5 On the production of Hebrew illuminated manuscripts in Italy, see: L. Mortara Ottolenghi, “Alcuni manoscritti ebraici miniati in Italia Settentrionale nel secolo XV,” Arte Lombarda (1981), pp. 41–48; E. Cohen, “Hebrew illuminated manuscript from Italy,” Gardens and Ghettos: The Art of Jewish Life in Italy, V.B. Mann (ed.) (Berkeley 1989), pp. 93–109; L. Mortara Ottolenghi, “Scribes, Patrons and Artists of Italian Illuminated Manuscripts in Hebrew,” Jewish Art 19/20 (1993/94), pp. 86–97.

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Fifteenth-century Italian manuscript illumination is often considered the zenith of this art form, and many Hebrew books were of the same calibre as those produced for Christians. This should not be surprising, as the codices commissioned by Jews were often illuminated in Christian workshops so that the decoration was similar. What is clearly evident is the real bibliophilic passion that led wealthy Jews in Italy to commission illustrated texts whose grandeur would rival that of the contemporary Latin books. One of the most famous and richly illuminated codices produced during this period is a manuscript known as the Rothschild Miscellany, an elegantly decorated volume that includes a varied collection of religious and secular works.6 It is clear that Latin codices decorated in a recently developed Renaissance manner influenced the taste of the manuscript’s Jewish patron. That the Italian artistic language was used in Hebrew works is also apparent in other codices, in the use of elegant vegetal scrolls with interleaved flowers and vines, mixed with ornaments derived from classical monuments, such as the classical grottesche decoration and the naked putti7 (Fig. 1). The classical motif of two putti flanking a wreath was readily adapted to support the owners’ coats of arms in countless margins of Renaissance manuscripts, both secular and religious. This can be seen as proof that the rules of humanistic culture and art were also accepted and even proudly displayed in liturgical book illustration as something that would confer prestige upon the patrons—both Christian and Jewish— and testify to their cultural values. Among the many types of illuminated Hebrew books were Bibles, which in most cases were decorated but only rarely illustrated with narrative scenes. From the 13th century on, the tradition in Italy was for these Bibles to be elegantly decorated. This practice is reflected in an early Bible from Rome, dated 1286, written by a scribe from the renowned Anav family and decorated with graceful floral and zoomorphic motifs (Vat. Ross. 554).8

6 L. Mortara Ottolenghi, “The Illumination and the Artists”, Rothschild Miscellany: Israel Museum MS 180/51—An Illuminated Manuscript from Fifteenth-Century Italy in Facsimile, I. Fishoff (ed.) (London 1986), pp. 127–251; for a different opinion on the origin of the illuminations, see U. Bauer-Eberhardt, “Miniature italiane in codici ebraici,” Il codice Miniato, Miniatura (1992), pp. 425–437. 7 See the relevant folios of the forementioned Rothschild Maḥzor (6v, 91v, 115v, 226v) and Joseph Albo’s Sefer ha-Ikarim, Rovigo, Accademia dei Concordi, MS Silvestriana 220; Narkiss, Hebrew Illuminated Manuscripts, p. 154, pl. 57. 8 Vatican Library, MS Ross. 554; Rome to Jerusalem. Four Jewish Masterpieces from the Vatican Library.



jewish book collection and patronage in renaissance italy 39

Figure 1. Rothschild Mahzor, New York, Library of the Jewish Theological ­Seminary of America Mic. 8892, Florence, c. 1492, fol. 6v.

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Fifteenth-century Bibles were characterised by elegant opening page decorations, such as those in a Bible produced in Ferrara in 1472, held today at the Bibliothèque nationale de France (Fig. 2).9 In the 15th century, manuscript production began to wane, owing to the invention of printing. Mechanised production of both text and illustrations enabled mass production of affordable books. Some manuscript illumination continued through the 16th century, but by then, it was an uneconomic luxury. Deluxe illuminated codices were produced only for special patrons, most of whom were high ranking nobles and ecclesiastics. However, there were also some Italian Jewish patrons, members of wealthy banking families that included the da Pisa, Volterra, Norsa, Del Bancos, Rieti, and Tivoli, who reached their greatest prominence in the 15th and early 16th centuries. Foremost among this group was the Norsa banking dynasty, which had its origins in the 14th century, adopting its name from the Umbrian city of Norcia, and was centred principally in Mantua and Ferrara. In 1461, Borso d’Este, duke of Ferrara, granted the Norsa family a broad array of privileges and a patent of nobility.10 In general, during the 15th and 16th centuries, the Jews of Ferrara enjoyed a period of prosperity under the protection and the liberal rule of the Este family. In a document held by the Jewish Theological Seminary in New York, Ercole d’Este, duke of Ferrara, Modena, and Reggio Emilia, granted an exclusive banking concession to certain Jewish families, including those of Isaac da Pisa and Emanuel Norsa.11 The Norsa family, among whose members were numbered celebrated intellectuals, scribes, and rabbis, commissioned some of the most superb manuscripts ever executed by scribes and artists in Italy. Emanuel Norsa of Ferrara (1457–1523), one of the wealthiest Jews in late-15th-century Italy, is known to have commissioned three works by the celebrated scribe Abraham Farissol.12

   9 Bibliothèque nationale de France (Paris), MS Hébreu 42, 1472; G. Sed-Rajna, Les manuscrits Hébreux enluminés, 113. 10 P. Norsa, Una famiglia di banchieri: I Norsa (1350–1950) (Naples 1959), pp. 14–24; M.-P. Balboni, Gli ebrei del Finale nel Cinquecento e nel Seicento (Florence 2005), pp. 14–17. 11 Jewish Theological Seminary Library (New York), MS 4012. They had the right to operate three banks in the territory of Ferrara, with loans at 15 percent interest; they had to follow certain rules of conduct; they were guaranteed protection and the freedom to practice their religion. Norsa, Una famiglia di banchieri: I Norsa, pp. 19–20. 12 Jewish Theological Seminary Library (New York), MS L85; Parma, Biblioteca Palatina, MS 3503, Ferrara 1502, fols. 209–261 were copied by Abraham Farissol for Immanuel ben Noah Raphael Norsa in Ferrara and were completed on 18 Tammuz 5262 (1502). Hebrew



jewish book collection and patronage in renaissance italy 41

Figure 2. Paris, Mahzor, Bibliothèque nationale de France, Fondation SmithLesouef, MS 250, Ferrara (?) 1520, fol. 5.

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Emanuel Norsa’s daughter Giusta owned a lavish codex known as the Rothschild Mahzor when she married David, the son of Elijah da Vigevano, a wealthy Jewish Florentine banker connected with the Gallico family (Figs. 1 and 3).13 The Norsa crest—a gold shield with the heads of three men and a horizontal band containing a crescent and two stars—appears on several folios of this manuscript. The coats of arms employed by Jewish families in Italy were created to imitate a Western world tradition that had its beginnings in the Middle Ages. According to this tradition, coats of arms were often incorporated into the opening decoration of illuminated codices.14 The Norsa family emblem adorns several such works of art dating to various periods, including, for example, an 18th-century silver binding enclosing a mahzor, now in possession of the Jewish Theological Seminary in New York.15 From data contained in various manuscripts, we know that in 1519, Isaac Norsa was granted renewed permission to operate a bank, together with his father and a member of the da Pisa family. It is most likely that he bought the famous De Bry Psalter that same year.16 In 1523, Emanuel’s Norsa son Isaac commissioned a fine, palm-sized, miscellaneous prayer book, now in Princeton, that includes fine floral decorations and a full-page depiction of King David playing a psaltery.17 In 1523, Isaac Norsa commissioned a siddur and a maḥzor in Ferrara by a Jewish scribe and illuminator, who called himself “Moses B. Hayim

Manuscripts in the Biblioteca Palatina in Parma, B. Richler (ed.) (Jerusalem 2001), n. 365, p. 74. 13 Rothschild Maḥzor; Cohen, Schmelzer and Cohen, Rothschild Maḥzor, pl. II, XI, figs. 1, 5, 11. 14 On Italian Jewish coats of arms see: U. Cassuto, “Gli stemmi presso gli ebrei,” Il Vessillo Israelitico 55 (1907), pp. 28–30, 117–18; E. Morpurgo, “Notizie sulle famiglie ebree esistite a Padova nel XVI secolo,” II Corriere israelitico 47 (1908–09), pp. 161–65; 193–96; 229–34; 257–60; C. Roth, “Stemmi di famiglie ebraiche italiane,” in Scritti in memoria di Leone Carpi, D. Carpi, A. Milano, and A. Rofé (eds.) (Jerusalem 1967), pp. 165–84; H. Lazar, “Coats of Arms of Italian Jews,” in Proceedings of the Eighth World Congress of Jewish Studies (Jerusalem 1982), division D, pp. 57–62; G.C. Bascapé, “Note di araldica e simbologia ebraiche,” Insegne e simboli. Araldica pubblica e privata medievale e moderna, G.C. Bascapé and M. Del Piazzo (eds.) (Rome 1983), pp. 443–46; D. Friedenberg, Medieval Jewish Seals from Europe (Wayne State University 1987). See also: “Heraldry and Titles of Nobility,” in The New Jewish Encyclopedia (New York 1976); F. Pisa, “Parnassim: Le Grandi Famiglie Ebraiche Italiane dal Secolo XI al XIX,” Annuario di Studi Ebraici, 10 (1980–84), pp. 291–491. 15 Maḥzor in silver bookbinding (Venice 1742). 16 C. Roth, “The De Bry Psalter and the Norsa Family,” Revue des Ètudes Juives 125 (1966), pp. 401–405. 17 Princeton University Library, Garrett MS 6; E. Cohen, “M. Isaac Norsa’s Hebrew Miscellany of 1523,” Princeton University Library Chronicle 64/1 (2002), pp. 87–106.



jewish book collection and patronage in renaissance italy 43

Figure 3. Rothschild Mahzor, New York, Library of the Jewish Theological ­Seminary of America Mic. 8892, Florence, c. 1492, fol. 395v.

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Aqrish, a refugee from Spain”.18 The Norsa family emblem can be seen at the bottom of a richly illuminated page decorated with foliated motifs (Fig. 2). From a later note in the same manuscript, written by Isaac’s wife Contzilla, we know that the codex was reserved for her use and that of her descendants. A painted frontispiece embellished with the Norsa crest was added later (fol. 4), with the name of her firstborn, Jacob, inscribed in gold. In the same manuscript, in the section dedicated to the Passover Haggadah, there is a picture of a family—a mother, a father, and a young boy—sitting around the Seder table (fol. 118). Evidently, beautiful manuscripts were considered part of the family heritage and were handed down from one generation to the next. These transfers, as well as notes of buying and selling and family events, were recorded on the empty pages of the codices themselves, and these data provide a rich source of information regarding the owners and their families, as well as some interesting glimpses of Jewish life at the time. From the artistic style of the manuscripts, we know that in their wealth and lifestyle, these individuals belonged to the Renaissance milieu fully as much as the artists and men of letters with whom they had both cultural and financial exchanges. Isaac Norsa was probably the owner of a magnificent Hebrew Bible known within the antiquarian milieu as the New York Delmonico Bible, but only very recently presented to the public.19 It is worth paying particular attention to this superb but little-studied Bible, which was sold in December 2008 at Sotheby’s in New York and is now part of a private collection.20 This Bible, completed in 1489, was written by Levi ben Aaron Halfan, a scribe responsible for several works written in the late-15th century in northern Italy.21 18 He finished the decoration of a siddur in Ferrara in 1512. Musée National du Moyen Age, Thermes de Cluny (Paris), MS 13995, Ferrara 1512; Sed-Rajna, Les manuscrits Hébreux enluminés, pp. 115, 116, 228. He also finished a maḥzor in 1520, Bibliothèque nationale de France (Paris), Fondation Smith-Lesouef, MS 250, Ferrara (?) 1520. The most astonishing characteristic of his production is that he retained his Sephardic script (possibly learned in Spain), but fully adopted the Italian criteria and style of ornamentation. 19 I would like to take this occasion to thank Angelo Piattelli for suggesting that I research this codex. 20 See Sotheby’s catalogue: Property from the Delmonico Collection of Important Judaica, New York 17 December 2008, lot 203. 21 The same scribe signed a manuscript of the Agiographa, Biblioteca Palatina (Parma), MS 2835. Richler, Hebrew Manuscripts in the Biblioteca Palatina in Parma, n. 360, p. 73. To this scribe are attributed several other codices, such as Bodleian Library (Oxford) MS Mich. 507 and MS Opp. 315; University Library (Amsterdam), MS Rosenthal 55; Bibliothèque nationale de France (Paris) MS 114, Sed-Rajna, Les manuscrits Hébreux enluminés,



jewish book collection and patronage in renaissance italy 45

The incipits of 17 of the biblical books are illuminated in gold on backgrounds of deep purple, green, crimson, and blue, adorned with fine white or liquid gold volutes (Fig. 4). The incipits of the Parashot (weekly Torah portions) are simply framed by elegantly decorated red, blue, or black pen-works. The Bible’s most remarkable ornamentation consists of a magnificent 16th-century illuminated double frontispiece (Fig. 5). Fol. 1v is dominated by a dual margin-frame: at the top is a border of naturalistic flora strewn on a gold ground, and on the bottom is a border of foliage interwoven with fruits and blossoms and bound with a cord. At the centre of the composition is a foliated wreath with family crests per pale encircled by a wavy red and blue ribbon. Below is an inscription framed in a red ribbon that includes information pertinent to the owner’s acquisition of the manuscript. The inscription tells us that Isaac ben Yom Tom Hage22 purchased the book from Isaac Norsa in April 1544.23 The second illuminated page (fol. 2) presents a monumental illuminated incipit of Bere’shit (the first portion in the book of Genesis), written in gold on a ground embellished with foliated volutes and orange ­blossoms. n. 180, p. 358. Most of the attributions are due to A. Freimann, “Jewish Scribes in Medieval Italy,” in Alexander Marx Jubilee Volume on the Occasion of His Seventieth Birthday, English Section (New York 1950), no. 278b, p. 289. Freimann’s description also attributes to the same scribe manuscripts that were probably written by another Halfan, possibly of French origin. Isaac Norsa was also the owner of a manuscript copied by Aryeh b. Eliezer Halfan, who copied several codices between 1477 and 1495. The codex is a collection of philosophical works by Averroes and Aristotle. Biblioteca Palatina (Parma), MS 2623. Richler, Hebrew Manuscripts in the Biblioteca Palatina in Parma, n. 1352, p. 377. 22 In our manuscript, the name is written Hage. In diverse Hebrew, Italian and Latin documents, the names of Isaac and Yom Tov Hage appear in different ways: Aggio, Hagius (in notarial documents), Hage, Haghe, Cagi. Aggio is the Italianate form of the Hebrew name that appears in a Hebrew Prophets book now at the Palatina library in Parma, MS 250; Richler, Hebrew Manuscripts in the Biblioteca Palatina in Parma, n. 228, p. 52. See the documents attached at the end of the essay by Aron Di Leone Leoni, especially a decree by Duke Hercules I, confirmed by Alfonsus I, Hercules II, and Alfonsus II (Document 1) A. Di Leone Leoni, “Documents inédits sur la ‘nation Portugaise’ de Ferrare,” Revue des Ètudes Juives 152 (1993), pp. 137–176; id., “La diplomazia estense e l’immigrazione dei cristiani nuovi a Ferrara al tempo di Ercole II,” Nuova Rivista Storica 78/2 (1994), pp. 293–322; id., “La nation portughesa corteggiata, privilegiata, espulsa e riammessa a Ferrara (1538– 1550),” in Studi e ricerche sulla storia, la cultura e la letteratura degli Ebrei d’Italia. In memory of Giuseppe Sermoneta, R. Bonfil (ed.), Italia 13–15 (2001), pp. 211–247 (220–23). See also: R. Segre, “La formazione di una comunità marrana: I portoghesi a Ferrara,” in Storia d’Italia, Annali 11, Gli ebrei in Italia, I, Dall’Alto Medioevo all’età dei ghetti, C. Vivanti (ed.) (Turin 1996), pp. 786–796. 23 The Bible was passed down to Azaria Hage as part of a property settlement with his brother Abraham Hage in 1593, and then to Raphael Samuel Hage and finally to his widow, Diamanda, who sold it to Mordechai ben Elisha Butrio (Budrio) in 1629.

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Figure 4. Hebrew Bible, Private Collection, written in 1489, illuminated in Ferrara in the early and mid-16th century, fol. 27.



jewish book collection and patronage in renaissance italy 47

Figure 5. Hebrew Bible, Private Collection, written in 1489, illuminated in Ferrara in the early and mid-16th century, fol. 124.

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Figure 6. Hebrew Bible, Private Collection, written in 1489, illuminated in Ferrara in the early and mid-16th century, fols. 1v–2.



jewish book collection and patronage in renaissance italy 49

The liquid gold-ground border combines scattered small red and blue flowers, strawberries, and simulated pearls, with two songbirds flanking a monarch butterfly. There is a coat of arms at the bottom within a stylised tabula ansata cartouche made up of a red and orange field adorned with foliated golden volutes. On either side is a monogram (B-A) within a crimson-ground cartouche. The borders of naturalistic flora strewn on a ground of liquid gold (fol. 2) bear a close resemblance to those found in a manuscript commissioned by Pope Leo X Medici in 1517. The codex is a commentary on St. Thomas Aquinas’s Summa Theologiae by Tommaso di Vio Caietani, an important ecclesiastic figure during the reign of Pope Julius II (who himself is portrayed in Raphael’s Disputa del Sacramento, a painting commissioned for the Vatican’s Stanza della Segnatura). The manuscript, now among the holdings of the Biblioteca dell’Accademia Nazionale dei Lincei and Corsiniana in Rome, is most probably the work of the school of Matteo da Milano (b. 1492), who was active in Rome from 1512 to 1523.24 In the same year, he executed the Libellus de litteris hebraicis by Egidio of Viterbo, offered by the author to Julius de Medici.25 In several of Matteo da Milano’s gold-ground borders we find two small birds: a blue tit and a bullfinch (in Italian, cianciarella and ciuffolotto), very much like those in our manuscript. It is possible that these two birds, which are ubiquitous in his works, served as a sort of signature. In fact, they are identical to birds seen in other works attributed to the school of Matteo da Milano, such as the Hours of Eleanora Gonzaga of Urbino26 and the Pucci Missal.27 They also appear frequently in a missal he executed in Rome for Cardinal Giulio de Medici, the future pope Clement VII (1523– 1534), which is now in the Art Museum of Berlin. Giulio de Medici is one of the two cardinals portrayed by Raphael in the portrait of Leo X at the Uffizi Gallery. He was the man who commissioned paintings by Raphael 24 The commentary was firstly published in 1508 in Venice. Accademia Nazionale dei Lincei and Corsiniana (Rome), MS 40D. 23–40D.24; MS Corsiniana 1478–1478bis, Rossi 90–91. A. Cadei (ed.), Il Trionfo sul tempo, Manoscritti illustrati dell’Accademia Nazionale dei Lincei (Modena 2003), 92, pp. 210–212. 25 Egidio da Viterbo, Libellus de litteris hebraicis, Vatican Library MS Lat. 5808. See S.E. Reiss, “Cardinal Giulio de’ Medici’s 1520 Berlin Missal and Other Works by Matteo da Milano,” Jahrbuch der Berliner Museen 33 (1991), pp. 107–128, figs. 15–16. 26 Book of Hours, Use of Rome, “The Hours of Dionora of Urbino” (Eleanora Gonzaga della Rovere) Italy, Ferrara or Rome, London, British Library, MS Yates Thompson 7, fol. 14 c. 1510–1515; Reiss, “Cardinal Giulio de’ Medici’s 1520 Berlin Missal,” fig. 10. 27 Missal of Cardinal Lorenzo Pucci, Vatican Library, MS Chigi, C VIII, 228, fol. 14. Reiss, “Cardinal Giulio de’ Medici’s 1520 Berlin Missal,” pp. 118–120, fig. 13.

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Figure 7. Tommaso di Vio Caietani, Commentary on St. Thomas Summa Theologiae, commissioned by Pope Leo X Medici in 1517. Rome, Accademia Nazionale dei Lincei and Corsiniana MS 40D. 23–40D.24; MS Corsiniana 1478–1478bis.



jewish book collection and patronage in renaissance italy 51

Figure 8. Book of Hours, Use of Rome, ‘The Hours of Dionora of Urbino’ (Eleonora Gonzaga della Rovere) Italy, Ferrara or Rome, London, British Library, MS Yates Thompson 7, fol. 14 c. 1510–1515.

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and Sebastiano del Piombo, and was also an important patron of the so called arti minori, having arranged for many superbly illuminated manuscripts throughout his ecclesiastic career. As mentioned above, the principal illuminator of these codices belongs to the school of the little studied but greatly talented Matteo da Milano, one of the most important Italian illuminators working in the late-15th and early-16th centuries. Originally from Milan, he worked mostly in Rome and Ferrara. His large group of powerful patrons included the Este family of Ferrara, the Medicis of Florence, the Orsini of Rome, and the della Rovere, dukes of Urbino. He specialised in creating manuscripts for high-ranking ecclesiastics from prominent families. He was especially known for his innovative border decorations, which combined the Netherlandish tradition and motifs from classical antiquity, including the use of grotesques, jewels, cameos, and other all’antica decorations, as well as carefully drawn flora and fauna. A similar decoration appears in a cutting from the Berlin Giulio de’ Medici missal, where we see a decorative figured border with an identifying cartouche.28 It is only in the last two decades that scholars have attributed any works to this master. We do not have much information about the life of Matteo da Milano after the important commissions he received in Rome and do not know if he continued to work for Clement VII until the end of his pontificate in 1534 or if he returned to northern Italy.29 The decoration of this newly discovered Hebrew Bible might provide further insight concerning the artist. I would dare to suggest that its miniature on fol. 2 is the work of the school of Matteo da Milano. It might have been commissioned by Isaac Norsa, while the Bible was still in the family’s possession, and executed before 1512, while Matteo was still in Ferrara, a few years after it was copied. At this stage in my research, I can say that we know the author of the beautiful illumination and that the work was done in Ferrara rather than in Florence, as was previously ­suggested.30 What has not yet been explained is why the Norsa family’s 28 Kupferstichkabinett (Berlin), MS 78D 17, fol. 282v; see Reiss, “Cardinal Giulio de’Medici’s 1520 Berlin Missal,” figs. 14, 17, 19, 21, 23. 29 J.J.G. Alexander, “Illuminations by Matteo da Milano in the Fitzwilliam Museum,” The Burlington Magazine, 133, No. 1063 (1991), pp. 686–690; see also the Getty Collection MS 87, fol. 76v; the Initial T on the Crucifixion by Matteo da Milano, Rome, about 1520; and the fragments from the Free Library of Philadelphia, Rare Book Department, MS Lewis E M 046:13. 30 A. Freimann, “Jewish Scribes in Medieval Italy,” no. 278b, p. 289; see also the description of the aforementioned Sotheby’s catalogue, Property of the Delmonico Collection, pp. 274–277.



jewish book collection and patronage in renaissance italy 53

Figure 9. Coat of arms, Imola Bible, Spain, 1451, and Ferrara early 16th century, Imola, Municipal Library MS 77, fol. 166v.

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coat of arms does not appear and to whom the initials B-A depicted in both folios refer. There is, in addition, a further intriguing element. If we carefully compare the gold-ground borders on the two folios, we see that they were executed using two different techniques. The one on fol. 2 is liquid gold, a powdered gold mixed with gum arabic into a kind of gold ink that was applied with a brush. On fol. 1v, we have a burnished gold leaf on which the floral decoration was much more roughly done than the lovely image executed on the facing page. This is very evident if we compare the strawberries on the two pages. I think that the miniature on fol. 1v is a later composition done in ­Matteo da Milano’s style. In fact, if we check carefully, we see that the first page has been clearly added to the first quire. Its parchment is thicker and darker than the fine one used in the rest of the codex. I suggest that the remake was done in the mid-15th century for Yom Tov Hage, the son of Isaac ben Yom Tov Hage, the man who is mentioned in the script as the purchaser of the Bible from Isaac Norsa in 1544.31 The initials, as well as the family coat of arms, were added on both folios on this occasion to seal the new ownership of the Bible. It is possible that the initials B-A on the frontispiece were meant to evoke his name in Italian: Aggio, as the Italianate form of the family name, and Bondi, as a translation of Yom Tov. These forms of his name are used in Hebrew, Italian and Latin ­documents.32 In his book ‫( מאור עיניים‬Me’or Einaim) (The light of the eyes), Azaria de Rossi (1513–1578) mentions Isaac Hage as a pious rich merchant of Sephardic origin who lived in Ferrara. The reference is found in the chapter that deals with the scripts on ancient shekel coins; there it is noted that Isaac died in Jerusalem and was buried a mile outside the Zion Gate. 31 Jewish Theological Seminary Library (New York), MS Rab. 1508; Palatina Library (Parma), MS 250 (228); Richler, Hebrew Manuscripts in the Biblioteca Palatina in Parma, p. 52. In a ketubah dated 1656 in Ferrara, there are references to other members of the Hage family (Paris, Klagsbald Collection). 32 The use of Bondi, Bondí, or Bondia as an Italian translation of Yom Tov is attested in many documents. Yomtob Haghe is called Bondi Hagius in notarial documents; his sons used the patronimic De Bondi (ben Yomtob); many documents mention Isaac de Bondi. See: Di Leone Leoni, “Documents inédits sur la ‘nation Portugaise’ de Ferrare,” pp. 137–176 (161); id., “La diplomazia estense e l’immigrazione dei cristiani nuovi a Ferrara al tempo di Ercole II,” Nuova Rivista Storica 78/2 (1994), pp. 293–322 (nn. 11 and 141); id., “La nation Portughesa corteggiata, privilegiata, espulsa e riammessa a Ferrara (1538–1550),” pp. 214, 220–222. See also: Segre, “La formazione di una comunità marrana: I portoghesi a Ferrara,” pp. 786–796. A. Di Leone Leoni, The Hebrew Portuguese Nations in Antwerp and London at the Time of Charles V and Henry VIII: New Documents and Interpretations (Jersey City 2005).



jewish book collection and patronage in renaissance italy 55

“His widow, who entered into possession of the coin, went to stay with her eldest son, Rabbi Yom Tov of blessed memory, who managed the estate of his father in Ferrara.”33 This is probably the same Yom Tov, also called Bondi, who is mentioned in letters and documents issued by Duke Ercole II in 1534, and who organised transportation from Anversa to Ferrara in 1538 for Sephardic Jews who had been invited by the duke to settle and work freely in Ferrara.34 We also know from records of purchase and heritage found in manuscripts, that the Hage family had an abiding love for manuscripts.35 Yom Tov Hage (or Bondi Aggio) also owned a precious Sephardic Bible, now in the Genoa University Library,36 which was written in Toledo in 1481 by Isaac ben David ben Kimchi in honour of the illustrious Rabbi Yosef Albo. His father, Isaac, owned a 14th-century Book of Prophets with Haftaroth according to the Sephardic rite.37 These records of possession open new perspectives on the movement of precious manuscripts in Italy and indicate that Italian collectors were probably very good customers for codices brought to Italy by Jewish refugees from Spain and Portugal.

33 Azaria de Rossi, Me’or Einaim (Mantova 1574), c. 171v [Hebrew]. See Azaria de Rossi, The Light of the Eyes, Translated from the Hebrew with an Introduction and Annotations by Joanna Weinberg (Yale 2001), ch. 56, p. 667. 34 Di Leone Leoni, “Documents inédits sur la ‘nation Portugaise’ de Ferrare,” pp. 137– 176; id., “La diplomazia estense e l’immigrazione dei cristiani nuovi a Ferrara al tempo di Ercole II,” pp. 293–322; Segre, “La formazione di una comunità marrana,” pp. 786–796. 35 Biblioteca Universitaria (Genoa), MS D.IX.31. Toledo, Spain, 1481; V. Antonioli-­Martelli and L. Mortara-Ottolenghi, Manoscritti biblici ebraici decorati provenienti da biblioteche italiane pubbliche e private (Milan 1966), n. 44; A. Contessa, “An Uncommon Representation of the Temple’s Implements in a Fifteenth-Century Sephardic Bible,” Ars Judaica 5 (2009), pp. 37–58. 36 I wonder if the crest on the opening page—three fleur-de-lys surmounting a crescent on an azure background—is the emblem of the Hage family. The Bible might have been purchased and donated on the occasion of a marriage. In fact, the practice of joining two coats of arms side-by-side is known in heraldry and usually denotes union by marriage. The crest on the right—an azure field with a rooster holding a palm in its beak standing on a mound of three hillocks, topped by a moon and a star—has been attributed to the Modigliani family in the Sotheby’s catalogue. A similar coat of arms appears in a much later ketubah from Rome, Italy (1754), now in the Jewish National Library. The identification is not certain because this family is not mentioned in the script and we have no reference to this family any earlier. 37 Parma, Biblioteca Palatina, MS 250; Richler, Hebrew Manuscripts in the Biblioteca Palatina in Parma, n. 228, p. 52.

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Isaac Norsa (1485–1560) acquired two of the most ancient and precious Sephardic Bibles, made in Toledo in 1276–7,38 and the mid-14thcentury Ambrosiana MS 105 Sup,39 both of which include illustrations of the Temple implements. The Norsa family acquired the famous Parma Bible in 1491 from a member of another well-known banking family, the Finzi.40 In some cases, new miniatures were added to the empty pages of these Sephardic codices, in the most fashionable Italian style of the period. A well-known example is a copy of the famous 1483 Lisbon Bible, which was made in Portugal a few years later.41 This sumptuous manuscript was planned with illuminated opening pages for all of the biblical books. Nevertheless, only two of these miniatures had been executed by the time the codex reached Italy. There, possibly in Florence, seven more pages were illuminated in the atelier of Attavante degli Attavanti, a Florentine artist famous for his elegant, idealised compositions and use of antique sources, who collaborated with the most influential illuminators of his day and worked for the leading patrons.42 The collaboration of masters such as Matteo da Milano and Attavante in the illustration of Hebrew manuscripts demonstrates that Jewish patrons commissioned work from the most accredited artists of their time. A less well-known example is a 15th-century richly illustrated Sephardic Bible that is now part of the holdings of the Municipal Library of Imola

38 Parma MS 2668, Richler, Hebrew Manuscripts in the Biblioteca Palatina in Parma, n. 1, p. 3. 39  Antonioli-Martelli and Mortara-Ottolenghi, Manoscritti biblici ebraici decorati, n. 34, pp. 80–81. 40 Richler, Hebrew Manuscripts in the Biblioteca Palatina in Parma, n. 1, p. 3. The Bible was sold by Hefzihu ben Mordechai Finzi to Moses ben Judah Norsa. J. S. Norzi used the manuscript in 1626 to compile his masoretic book, later printed in Mantua (1742). The author referred to it as “an accurate Toledo manuscript”. 41 The Lisbon Bible of 1483 is now at the British Library, MS Or. 2626–28; Narkiss, Hebrew Illuminated Manuscripts, p. 80, pl. 20. Its later copy, executed in Lisbon in 1490– 1496, with additions made in Florence in c. 1500, is in now in Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS Héb. 15; Sed-Rajna, Les manuscrits Hébreux enluminés des Bibliothèques de France (Paris 1994), p. 53. 42 The manuscript in Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS Héb. 15, was sold by Menashe ben Yequtiel of Tivoli to R. Elhanan de Toffia (Perugia), in 1504, passed it on to one of his sons, Solomon, in 1529. Later, it was acquired by the bishop of Viterbo, Giglio, who was a Hebraic scholar; upon his death in 1532, it was inherited by Nicola Ridolfi and was then acquired by Pietro Strozzi, nephew of Caterina de Medici. In 1588, when Strozzi died, his library was appropriated by Queen Caterina of France and placed in the Royal Library in 1599. Narkiss, Hebrew Illuminated Manuscripts, p. 156, pl. 58; Sed-Rajna, Les manuscrits Hébreux enluminés, p. 53.



jewish book collection and patronage in renaissance italy 57

(Northern Italy).43 This Bible, brought to Naples by a Sephardic family, changed hands there several times in 1493, and eventually entered into the possession of the Ferrara branch of the Fano family in 1578. The many illuminations in this elegant Bible are examples of a sumptuous late-Gothic Castilian foliated decoration influenced by Flemish ornamentation, but few miniatures were actually executed in northern Italy at the very end of the 15th century. This is evident because some decorations show a totally different style and a palette of primary blue-red opposing colours, typical of the Ferrarese school.44 The practice of inserting additional illustrations when a manuscript changed hands was common during the period and was often the case in codices that belonged to illustrious Italian Jewish families. This practice is, to a certain extent, evidence of a degree of acculturation in book making on the part of Jewish patrons and collectors, who appropriated local trends and styles. The vibrancy of the colour on the painted pages is one of the most striking aspects of these Hebrew manuscripts, which were produced according to the highest standards of skill and craftsmanship of the times, using techniques that had evolved over a millennium, and precious pigments that were well-preserved inside the closed volumes. The admiration they evoke in our modern eyes probably fulfils the fondest wishes not only of their talented artists but also those of their original demanding patrons.

43 Imola, Biblioteca Comunale MS 77, Spain, 1451; Antonioli-Martelli and Mortara-Ottolenghi, Manoscritti biblici ebraici decorati, n. 42; M. Perani, “La Bibbia Ebraica della Biblioteca Comunale di Imola,” in La comunità ebraica di Imola dal XIV al XVI secolo. Copisti, mercanti e banchieri, A. Ferri and M. Giberti (eds.), with two essays by C. Ravanell-Guidotti and M. Perani, Storia dell’Ebraismo, Italia, Studi e testi XXIV (Florence 2006), pp. 395–440; M. Perani, “Bibbia ebraica, sec. XV, seconda metà, Ms. 77 (Galli 14). Bim 15 A 3 23,” in Miniature nella Biblioteca comunale di Imola, M. Baruzzi, S. Mirri and F. Lollini (eds.) (Imola 2006), pp. 101–127; Contessa, “An Uncommon Representation of the Temple’s Implements,” pp. 37–58. 44 G. Mariani Canova, La miniatura veneta del Rinascimento 1450–1500 (Venice 1969), pp. 130–36; J.J.G. Alexander, J.H. Marrow and L. Freeman Sandler, The Splendor of the Word: Medieval and Renaissance Manuscripts at the New York Public Library (London and Turnhout 2005), n. 50, pp. 241–244.

Joseph Ha-Cohen and His Negative Attitude Toward R. Meir Katzenellenbogen (Maharam Padova) Abraham David Joseph Ha-Cohen—the greatest 16th-century Jewish historian—was born in Avignon, Provence, in the south of France, on 20 December 1496. His parents, the physician R. Joshua Ha-Cohen and Dolsa Alconstantini, were among the Jews expelled from Spain in 1492. They found refuge in Provence, where they were married three years later. In 1502, the Ha-Cohen family moved to Genoa in northern Italy. In 1516, Ottaviano Fregoso—the duke of Genoa—expelled all the Jews, including the Ha-Cohen family, from his duchy. A few years later, Joseph returned to Genoa, where he practised medicine. Life for Italian Jews was unstable, particularly in the north, and like his compatriots, Joseph Ha-Cohen frequently found himself moving from place to place. Thus we find him living in various locations in the Genoa region, such as Novi, Voltaggio, Ovada, and Castelletto. Joseph died sometime after 1577, at over eighty years of age.1 There is no doubt that Joseph Ha-Cohen was a true Renaissance scholar who was interested in various fields of the humanities. He left works in historiography,2 geography,3 medicine,4 poetry, belles-lettres and

1 For a short biographical survey of Joseph Ha-Cohen, see K. Almbladh (ed.), Joseph Ha-Kohen, Sefer E’meq ha-Bakha (Uppsala 1981), pp. 11–15. See also G. Musso, “Per la storia degli ebrei in Genova nella seconda metà del cinquecento. Le vicende genovesi di R. Josef Hakohen,” Scritti in memoria di Leone Carpi, D. Carpi, A. Milano and A. Rofe (eds.), (Jerusalem 1967), pp. 101–111. On his life in Genoa, see S. Simonsohn, “Joseph Ha-Cohen in Genoa,” Italia 13–15 (2001), pp. 119–130 [Hebrew section]. 2 See below. 3 Joseph Ha-Cohen translated into Hebrew three geographical treatises: Sefer ha-India ha-Ḥadashà written by Lopez de Gomara in close collaboration with Fernando Cortes, who wrote Historia general de las Indias and Cronica de la Conquista de Mexico (Zaragoza 1552), which Joseph Ha-Cohen renamed Sefer Fernando Cortes. The Hebrew translations of these works were copied at least four times by the translator himself. Those were published by M. Lazar (Lancaster 2002). Another geographical work translated by Ha-Cohen is Matziv Gevulot A’mim, written by Johannes Aubanus Boemus, Omnium gentium mores, leges et ritus (Augsburg 1520). Some chapters of the Hebrew translation were published by R.S. Weinberg, in Sinai 72 (1973), pp. 333–364. 4 Joseph Ha-Cohen translated a medical work written by Meir Alguadis in Spanish. Entitled Mekitz Nirdamim in Hebrew, it has been partially published by D. Margalit in Korot 6 (1975), pp. 533–560.

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l­ exicography.5 Yet his unique place is that of the greatest Jewish historian of the Middle Ages and Early Modern period. His most important work is ‫דברי הימים למלכי צרפת ובית אוטומאן התוגר‬ (Divrei ha-Yamim le-Malkhei Zarfat u-Beit Ottoman ha-Tugar; The History of the Kings of France and Turkey). The title does not reflect the real significance of this book. In fact, it is a chronological presentation of the history of the European nations from the beginning of the Middle Ages up to the 1570s. French or Turkish history is not emphasised any more than that of other nations.6 Joseph Ha-Cohen himself later edited the Jewish material in a separate collection that he called ‫‘( עמק הבכא‬Emeq ha-Bakha; Vale of Tears). As mentioned previously, Joseph’s historiographical books include an abundance of edicts, and descriptions of the persecutions that were a way of life of Diaspora Jewish communities in medieval Europe.7 Joseph Ha-Cohen’s personal letters are known from a manuscript that was originally housed in the library of the Alliance Israélite Universelle (AIU) in Paris; the collection was first described by Isador Loeb.8 At the end of the 19th century, the Jewish scholar Prof. David Kaufmann of Budapest borrowed this manuscript from the Alliance Israélite, in order to publish the letters. He published only three of them prior to his death shortly thereafter. The manuscript then remained in the Kaufmann Manuscript Collection, now located at the Hungarian Academy for Sciences in Budapest A332. None of the scholars who were interested in Joseph Ha-Cohen’s letters had any idea where they were preserved. I was lucky enough to find the lost manuscript on microfilm at the National Library of Israel. I thus had the opportunity to publish the entire collection more than twenty-five

5 A few manuscripts, mostly autographs, contain some of his poems, several of which were published by I. Davidsohn, Introduction to Sefer Shaa’shui’m (Berlin 1925), pp. 88–90. He also left two treatises: Peles ha-Shemot, a lexicographical work, and Iggeret Limud, a didactic style list of ways to begin Hebrew letters. 6 This historiographical treatise is divided into three parts. The first two parts were published in Sabbioneta (1554), while the uncompleted third part was published by D.A. Gross (Jerusalem 1955). His edition is based on a manuscript at the British Library (Or. 3656) (in the Institute of Microfilmed Hebrew Manuscripts at the National Library of Israel (here­ after IMHM), no. 6411, fol. 150r–188r), which is an autograph dated 1577. Another manuscript, also an autograph dated a little earlier, contains the third part of Divrei ha-Yamim and is located in the same library (Or. 10378) (IMHM, no. 7749, fol. 394v-483r) (hereafter Ha-Cohen, Divrei Ha-Yamim). 7 A critical edition of this text, which is based on some manuscripts, has been compiled by Almbladh in Sefer ‘Emeq ha-Bakha. 8 I. Loeb, Josef Hacohen et les chroniqueurs Juifs (Paris 1888), pp. 7–15 (first published as an article in Revue des Ètudes Juives 16 (1888), pp. 32–40).



joseph ha-cohen and his negative attitude

61

years ago9 and again as a another publication, entitled ‫היסטוריון בסערות‬ ‫( רוחו‬Historiyon be-Saa’rot Ruḥo; The Irascible Historian).10 This collection of 69 letters from Joseph Ha-Cohen’s correspondence with his relatives during the 1530s and 1540s gives us the opportunity to evaluate Ha-Cohen’s personality and also provides details about his immediate family. The letters were copied and edited anonymously in the late 16th or early 17th century. The last date mentioned is 6 January 1547.11 The collection can be divided into three categories: 1.  Personal correspondence with relatives and friends.12 2. Letters written to communities in Italy, Salonica and Provence concerning the release of Jewish captives who came from Tunis, Greece and Safed. Joseph Ha-Cohen applied for financial aid for this purpose.13 3. Letters written regarding family quarrels between Joseph Ha-Cohen and his brother Todros and sister Klara.14 Our focus in this article is on one piece of the third group of letters, those that portray Joseph ha-Cohen as an enraged, embittered, and arrogant person who was engaged in an intense quarrel with his closest relatives. He found certain deeds of his sister Klara and his brother Todros evil and totally unacceptable. Many letters in this category were addressed to Isaac Ha-Cohen, his sister Klara’s son-in-law, regarding Klara’s intention to break her late husband’s will.15 Her husband, Joseph ben David, who died in 1541,16 had stipulated that four guardians had to approve his daughters’ marriages. Joseph Ha-Cohen, one of the guardians, was opposed to a particular match. Moreover, Klara had also agreed to grant this daughter a larger share of the inheritance. Joseph corresponded with Klara’s son-in-law as well as

9 A. David, “The Joseph Ha-Cohen Epistolary” (Hebrew), Italia 5 (1985), pp. 7–98. 10 A. David, Historiyon be-Saa’rot Ruḥo (The Irascible Historian) (Jerusalem 2004) (hereafter The Irascible Historian) [Hebrew]. 11  David, The Irascible Historian, pp. 7–8, 71–72. 12 Ibid., pp. 9–14. 13 Ibid., pp. 15–22. 14 Ibid., pp. 22–31. 15  Ibid., 22–26; Simonsohn, “Joseph Ha-Cohen in Genoa,” pp. 125–126. 16 David, The Irascible Historian, Letter no. 42 (pp. 72–73). He was a physician who resided in Genoa from 1523. See: Joseph ha-Cohen, Divrei ha-Yamim, 2 (Sabbioneta 1554), fol. 166v.

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with other family members regarding this issue. In his letters to Isaac HaCohen, Joseph arrogantly expressed his extreme anger. In his words: ‫ מבלת עולם ברוב שקריה‬. . . ‫כי אחותי ברישעה עומדת ותמאס תורת אלי"נו‬ ‫ נעות המרדות הדוברת בפיה שלם ובקרבה‬.‫ קשת הרוח והעורף אחותנו‬.‫וכשפיה‬ .‫אורבה תשים‬ My sister holds fast to her wickedness, and hates God’s commandments . . . she enjoys filling the world with her lies and her witchcraft. Stubborn and stiff-necked is our sister. Her words are totally perverse, concealing her snares.17

Joseph applied to the greatest halakhic authority in Italy at that time, Rabbi Meir Katzenellenbogen, also known as Maharam Padova, and asked him to issue a formal ruling against Klara.18 Before going on any further, let us describe the personality of this great rabbinic scholar. R. Meir Katzenellenbogen, one of the greatest Italian rabbis and ­halakhists of his time, was born in Prague in 1473, where he studied in the yeshiva (Jewish academy) headed by R. Jacob Pollack.19 It is not known when he moved from Prague to Padova, where he studied in the yeshiva of R. Judah Ha-Levi Minz. In 1525, he was appointed to succeed his fatherin-law, R. Abraham ben Judah Minz ha-Levi, as rabbi of the Padovan ­Ashkenazic community. He headed a yeshiva there and served as rabbi until his death in 1565. One of his responsibilities was to head the council of regional rabbis in Venice. He was very active in the 1554 general assembly of Ha-Va’ad ha-Kellali in Ferrara and, as a delegate, was one of the signatories of the Takkanot (regulations).20 He engaged in halakhic correspondence with the greatest scholars of his times. As a noted posek, he was asked to intervene in famous cases and scandals throughout Italy

17 David, The Irascible Historian, Letter no. 60 (p. 90). 18 Ibid., Letter no. 44 (pp. 74–75). 19 R. Jacob Pollack was the greatest rabbinic figure in Poland in the first half of the 16th century. His rabbinic career started at the end of the 15th century in Prague, where he was the head of the Beit Din (Jewish tribunal) and the yeshiva. He left Prague for ­Cracow before 1495. For more information on him, see: E. Reiner, Rabbi Ya’akov Pollack of Cracow: First and Foremost Among Cracow’s Scholars, E. Reiner (ed.) (Kroke-KazimiierzCracow-Tel Aviv 2001), pp. 43–68 [Hebrew]. As a master of R. Meir Katzenellenbogen, see: ibid. pp. 65–66. 20 On those Takkanot, see: L. Finkelstein, Jewish Self-Government in the Middle Ages (New York 1964), pp. 300–306.



joseph ha-cohen and his negative attitude

63

and abroad.21 One of his pupils in his Yeshiva was the chronicler R. Gedalya Ibn Yaḥya.22 Some of his responses are included in ‫( פסקים ושאלות תשובות‬Pesakim u-She’elot Teshuvot (Decisions and responsa) (Venice, 1553), together with those written by his master, R. Judah Minz.23 Some more of his responsa and halakhic decisions were published in collections of his colleagues’ responses. Others were discovered in Hebrew manuscripts and a portion of them has been published in our times.24 Although R. Meir’s decision in the case involving Joseph Ha-Cohen and his sister has not been preserved, we do know that the complainant did not receive the favourable ruling he had expected, and wrote an arrogant letter to R. Meir: ‫ כתבנו אל מעלתך דברים של‬,‫כי חשבנוך גם אני גם אחי יצ"ו לנכוה בפושרין‬ .‫טעם ואתה השיבות עורבא פרח‬ Both my brother and myself expected you to read between the lines in order to comprehend the matter at hand. We sent your honour reasonable words and your reply was nonsense.25

In his letter to his father-in-law, R. Abraham Ha-Cohen of Bologna, Joseph continued to dishonour the great sage: ]![‫ וכפתן חרש לא אבא‬,‫וגם להסגיא נהור אשר בפאדוואה כתבתי דברים כהויתן‬ .‫ ויביאו גזול ויאמרו הנה מתלאה‬,‫שמוע‬ I wrote to the blind one in Padua the truth of the matter, but like a deaf viper he refused to listen. They steal, and he replies, “What a bother?”26

21 On Maharam Padova, see: S. Schwarzfuchs, “I responsi di Rabbi Meir da Padova come fonte storica,” in Scritti in memoria di Leone Carpi, D. Carpi, A. Milano and A. Rofe (eds.) (Jerusalem 1967), pp. 112–132; A. Ziv, “Maharam mi-Padova,” Ha-Darom 28 (1969), pp. 160– 195 [Hebrew]; I.S. Lange, “R. Meir of Padova as an Editor of Seder Gittin ve-Halizah of Mahari (R. Judah) Minz,” in Miscellanea di studi in memoria di Dario Disegni, E.M. Artom, L. Caro and S.J. Sierra (eds.) (Turin 1969), pp. 49–76 [Hebrew section]; R. Bonfil, Rabbis and Jewish Communities in Renaissance Italy (London and Washington 1993), index. 22 See A. David, “Gedalia Ibn Yaḥya, autheur de Shalshelet Ha-Qabbalah,” Revue des Ètudes Juives CLIII (1994), p. 111. 23 For an explanation of the historical significance of his responses, see: Schwarzfuchs, ibid. 24 See: Y. Boksenboim, She’elot u-Teshuvot Matnot ba-Adam (Tel Aviv 1983), nos. 72, 77, 80–81, 83–85 [Hebrew]; id., Iggrot Beit Rieti (Tel Aviv 1987), nos. 178, 286. Three of his decisions are included in the collection of decisions, Rivot ba-Shea’rim, in Y. Boksenboim, Parashiot (Tel Aviv 1986), nos. 10, 11, 33 [Hebrew]; She’elot u-Teshuvot Rabenu Moshe Provenzalo A.J. Iani (ed.) (Jerusalem 1998), no. 236 [Hebrew]. 25 David, The Irascible Historian, Letter no. 45 (pp. 75–76). 26 Ibid., Letter no. 48 (p. 77).

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In another letter, dated August 1544, to his brother R. Meir Ha-Cohen who resided in Salonica, he discusses another scandal that their sister Klara and brother Todros were both involved in, and he mentions again the unexpected decision of R. Meir regarding the earlier scandal described above: ‫ כי אין‬,‫וכשכתבנו אל כמה"ר מאיר מפאדואה כתב גם הוא כמונו ויותר לאמר‬ ‫ וכשהיינו שלא לנוכח היה יועץ אל קשת‬,‫הדין נותן לגזול האחיות לתת לגאמילה‬ ‫הרוח והעורף אחותנו לעשותו על אפינו ועל חמתנו נגד הדין והדת ונגד צוואת‬ .‫הנפטר‬ When we wrote to the esteemed rabbi, Meir of Padua, he agreed with our position, stating that according to the law, Gamila may not be favored over the other sisters. But in our absence, he consulted with . . . our sister, to our displeasure, acting against religious law and the dead man’s will.27

Joseph Ha-Cohen’s complicated character is also evident in his troubled relationship with his brother Todros, who resided in Novi at different times. Joseph Ha-Cohen addressed two letters to Todros. In the first one,28 he complained that his brother had not written to him for a long time— one year! In the second, a poetical letter, Joseph blamed his brother for behaving dishonourably and sharply rebuked him using grandiose biblical phrases to express his extreme anger: ‫ למה תדבר‬.‫התנין הגדול היושב בתוך מימי הכעס והאיבה המקיץ נרדמים י"א‬ ‫ דע לך כי לולי בעיתות הזמן יבהלוני עתה‬.‫כאחד הנבלים ותחשבני כאחד הרקים‬ ‫ ולמה לא אעשה אחר הודיע אלי"ם אותי את פחיתות נפשך‬.‫עשיתי כהנה וכהנה‬ ‫ואת עוצם הגאוה הנתונה בך ובמושב לצים אשר כמוך תושיבני ובכתב לדופי‬ ‫ על אחת‬,‫ הלא ידעת כי יכול אוכל להשיבך‬,‫ הודיעני על מה תריבני‬. . . ‫תתנני‬ ‫ לך נא‬.‫ ואני עשיתים‬,‫ וכי עוד ידי נטויה על מימך אשר אמרת לי הם‬,‫כמה וכמה‬ ‫ אך כי כל גופך‬,‫ וראה אם תוכל להושיט בם אצבעך הקטנה‬,‫הנקה מצואתך בהם‬ ‫ פן אגדף אותך באופן אשר לא‬,‫ ועתה השמר לך מחטא לי בלשונך עוד‬,‫הנבזה‬ . . . ‫ מה לך נרפה? כי הפכתה אלי עורף ולא פנים‬.‫תוכל להרפא‬ To the great crocodile that wallows in the waters of anger and enmity . . . Why do you speak like a scoundrel and treat me like dirt? Are you so deeply grieved by my deeds? Know that if not for lack of time, I would do worse to you. What is to prevent me, now that I know your worthless nature and great pride . . . You would have me join the company of the insolent like yourself, and cast slurs on me in writing. Let me know what you charge me with—are you not aware that I can readily respond? My arm is still outstretched over your waters that you have claimed for yourself. But I ­created them. Remove your excrement from them and see if you have any part in them . . . Do not 27 Ibid., Letter no. 55 (p. 85). 28 Ibid., Letter no. 15 (p. 42).



joseph ha-cohen and his negative attitude

65

offend me by your speech again, lest I curse you. You shirker! You dare not face me!29

The conflict between the two brothers became even more bitter during a subsequent scandal that tore the family apart between 1544–1546. Joseph Ha-Cohen, Klara, and Todros were all involved in it, as it appears from some of Joseph Ha-Cohen’s other letters.30 Non-Jewish sources suggest that Todros converted to Christianity and changed his name to Ludovico Carretto.31 Joseph Ha-Cohen had a difficult life. Most significantly, within the space of ten years, he lost three children, two of whom died within three months of one another. Moreover, other relatives passed away during the same period.32 In addition, the necessity to move frequently from place to place throughout northern Italy did not enhance his feeling of security. It seems to me that his bitterness at life’s blows was aggravated by his stormy nature and by his poor relationship with his closest relatives. An irritable person, Joseph did not choose his words with tact. Rather, he used strong language to express his anger towards his sister, his brother, and even the great sage, R. Meir of Padova. It is noteworthy that such outspoken criticism against a rabbinic figure, especially against the greatest Italian halakhic authority of the day, was certainly highly irregular. On the other hand, knowing that Joseph HaCohen behaved arrogantly towards everyone, it is not surprising that he denigrated this esteemed rabbinical figure. We have had the rare opportunity to learn about the personality and character of this outstanding Jewish historian and humanist from authentic sources. In this respect, Joseph Ha-Cohen is unique. His personal letters reflect another aspect of his personality: a man with a mercurial and intolerant disposition who did not mince words when his anger was aroused.

29 Ibid., Letter no. 18 (pp. 43–45). 30 Ibid., Letters no. 50–67 (pp. 79–96), see also the introduction, pp. 26–31; Simonsohn, “Joseph Ha-Cohen in Genoa,” pp. 127–129. 31 See: R. Bonfil, “Who was the Apostate Ludovico Carretto?” Galut Ahar Gola (Exile after Diaspora), in Studies in the History of the Jewish People, Presented to Professor Haim Beinart on the Occasion of His Seventieth Birthday (Jerusalem 1988), pp. 437–442 [Hebrew]; id. “Chi era Ludovico Carretto apostata?” E andammo dove il vento ci spinge, N. Zazzu (ed.) (Genoa 1992), pp. 51–58. See also Simonsohn, “Joseph Ha-Cohen in Genoa,” p. 125, note 12. 32 Joseph Ha-Cohen mentions tragedies in his close family. David, The Irascible Historian, Letters nos. 20, 22–26 (pp. 12–14, 27, 47–49, 51–56). See also: Ha-Cohen, Divrei haYamim, fols. 259v–260r, 274r-v, 306r; id. Sefer ‘Emeq ha-Bakha, pp. 75–76, 78–79.

Figure 1. Ms. Kaufmann (Budapest) 332, Joseph Ha-Cohen: Letters, Fol. 61v–62v: Joseph’s letter to R. Meir Katzenellenbogen, dated 28 Iyyar 1543 (above pp. 62–63).

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joseph ha-cohen and his negative attitude

Figure 2. Ms. Kaufmann (Budapest) 332, Joseph Ha-Cohen: Letters, Fol. 62v–63r: Joseph’s letter to R. Meir Katzenellenbogen, dated Tishrei 1544 (above p. 64).

67

Figure 3. Ms. Kaufmann (Budapest) 332, Joseph Ha-Cohen: Letters, Fol. 64r–64v: Joseph’s letter to his father-in-law R. Abraham Ha-Cohen of Bologna, dated 30 July 1543 (above p. 63).

68 abraham david

Re-creating Creation in the Early Italian Yoẓer: Between Tradition and Innovation Yehoshua Granat 1 There is something intrinsically intriguing about beginnings, points of departure, new starts. This statement seems to be valid in general—hence the universal prevalence and appeal of creation stories—and also, specifically, when one aims to characterise and interpret a certain cultural or literary phenomenon. Looking into the very beginnings, the primary or even embryonic stages of a given literary school or genre, can often cast a revealing light on its quintessential, defining elements. Considering the field of medieval Hebrew poetry from this perspective, the dawn of Hebrew poetry in Muslim Spain (Al-Andalus) comes instinctively to mind. Around the middle of the 10th century, a novel centre of Hebrew poetry famously emerged in the Iberian Peninsula. A new poetic culture was founded, heavily indebted to the great tradition of Arabic secular poetry and thus sharply discernible from earlier Hebrew poetry, exclusively liturgical (piyyut), that had thrived for centuries in the long-established Middle Eastern centres of Jewish civilisation, mainly in Palestine (Eretz Israel) and the periphery. The surviving works of the earliest Hebrew poets of Al-Andalus known to us, Menachem ben Saruq and Dunash ben Labrat—two rival protégés of Cordoban courtier Ḥisdai Ibn Shaprut—already encapsulate key elements of the distinctly Andalusian poetics that would reach full bloom with the later masterpieces of ­Shemuel Ha-Nagid, Shelomo Ibn Gabirol, and their successors.1 The earliest Hebrew poetry of southern Italy dates to the end of the first millennium as well, though somewhat earlier than the age of ­Menachem and Dunash. But in contrast to the utterly innovative character of its Andalusian counterpart, this new school of Hebrew poetry seems to have

1 E. Fleischer, “On the Emergence of Hebrew Secular Poetry in Spain,” in Culture and Society in Medieval Jewry, M. Ben-Sasson, et al. (eds.) (Jerusalem 1989), pp. 197–226 [Hebrew]; T. Carmi, The Penguin Book of Hebrew Verse (New York 1981), pp. 24–25.

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been more of “an offshoot of Palestine,”2 following, grosso modo, the wellestablished traditional lines of eastern piyyut. Admiration of, and adhesion to, the poetic models of classical piyyut, mainly as manifested in the work of Elazar birabi Kalir, can indeed be regarded as a main feature of the Hebrew poetry created in Christian Europe during the early Middle Ages—firstly in the Italian school and later on in the Franco-German school, its lineal descendent.3 Nevertheless, a close examination of early Italian Hebrew poetry does enable us to detect some noteworthy, distinctive characteristics that distinguish it from the earlier, eastern piyyut tradition. As Jefim (Ḥayyim) Schirmann pointed out in his general survey of early Hebrew poetry from Italy, though “Italian Jewry took readily and wholeheartedly to the traditions brought to them from the East,” [T]hey were by no means completely dominated by them, nor did they become mere camp-followers. For all the esteem in which they held their predecessors, the Italian hymnologists permitted themselves a certain latitude: their creations owe no small part of their appeal to their direct address and robust freshness.4

Schirmann’s insights have been complemented and concretised by Ezra Fleischer, who observed and analysed several unique characteristics of early Italian Hebrew poetry, mainly with regard to structural and prosodic dimensions.5 Recently, these and additional aspects of the early Italian school of Piyyut were elaborately discussed in Peter Sh. Lehnardt’s doctoral dissertation.6 The present study is focused on a specific sub-genre of early Italian piyyutim: yoẓerot7 for Shabbat, which present the story of the creation of the

2 Carmi, The Penguin Book of Hebrew Verse, pp. 24, 91. 3 See (for instance) Fleischer, “Hebrew Liturgical Poetry in Italy, Remarks Concerning Its Emergence and Characteristics,” Italia Judaica I (1983), pp. 415, 418, n. 10. 4 J. Schirmann, “The Beginning of Hebrew Poetry in Italy and Northern Europe: 1: Italy,” in The Dark Ages, Jews in Christian Europe 711–1096, C. Roth (ed.) (Tel Aviv 1966), pp. 249– 266 (citation: p. 249). 5 See esp. E. Fleischer, “Aspects in the Poetry of the Early Italian Paytanim,” Ha-Sifrut 30–31 (1981), pp. 131–167 [Hebrew]; ibid., “Hebrew Liturgical Poetry in Italy,” pp. 415–426 [Hebrew]. 6 P. Sh. Lehnardt, Studies in the Emergence of the Tradition of Hebrew Liturgical Poetry in Italy, PhD dissertation Beer-Sheva, 2006 [Hebrew]. 7 I. Elbogen, Jewish Liturgy, A Comprehensive History, translated by R.P. Scheindlin (Philadelphia 1993), p. 168. Ezra Fleischer elaborately discusses the characteristics and history of the genre in his monumental monograph: The Yoẓer, Its Emergence and Development (Jerusalem 1984) [Hebrew].



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71

world according to the biblical account in Genesis 1 and adjunct rabbinic traditions. The earliest specimens of this group are to be found in the prolific oeuvre of Amittai Ben Shephatiah (‫אדון מגיד מראשית אחרית; אשיחה‬ ‫;)דברי נפלאותיך; אלף אלפים‬8 somewhat later came those by Shelomo HaBavli (‫)אומץ דר חזקים; אל נישא‬,9 Zebadiah (‫אפאר שם מלך; אשכים פני‬ ‫)מלך‬,10 and Qalon (‫)אאמיר אלהי עולם‬.11 As we shall see below, this type of Yoẓer was perceived as endemic to the early Italian piyyut, which later bequeathed it to the other schools of piyyut in Christian Europe, yet it is actually based on earlier Eastern models. Nevertheless, one can detect in these early Italian “cosmogonic yoẓerot” several noteworthy features that may be regarded as embodying the “direct address and robust freshness” attributed by Schirmann to the early Italian school of Hebrew poetry. 2 Yet before turning to our “cosmogonic yoẓerot,” let us recall an interesting episode from the Chronicle of Ahimaaz, which despite its anecdotal, even comical, nature, may illuminate in a thought-provoking manner the emergence of a distinctive school of Hebrew poetry in southern Italy around the 9th century. This episode12 describes an incident that took place in the community of Venosa. A sage from Palestine, whose name is not mentioned, stays in town and preaches every Shabbat in Hebrew in the synagogue; Rabbi Silano, the local scholar, translates the homily into the local vernacular, and thus mediates between the emissary and the congregation. Such a state of affairs clearly reflects a hierarchy according to which the provincial community of Venosa is subject to the hegemony

   8 The editio princeps is B. Klar, Megillat Ahimaaz, The Chronicle of Ahimaaz, With a Collection of Poems from Byzantine Southern Italy (Jerusalem 1974), pp. 60–62 (‫אדון מגיד‬ ‫ ;)מראשית אחרית‬pp. 66–69 (‫ ;)אשיחה דברי נפלאותיך‬pp. 75–77 (‫[ )אלף אלפים‬Hebrew]. See also Y. David, The Songs [Poems] of Amittai (Jerusalem 1975), pp. 25–31 (‫אשיחה דברי‬ ‫ ;)נפלאותיך‬pp. 32–35 (‫ ;)אלף אלפים‬pp. 46–54 (‫[ )אדון מגיד מראשית אחרית‬Hebrew].   9 E. Fleis[c]her, The Poems of Shelomo Ha-Bavli (Jerusalem 1973), pp. 224–229 (‫אומץ דר‬ ‫ ;)חזקים‬pp. 230–236 (‫[ )אל נישא‬Hebrew]. 10 Y. David, The Poems of Zebadiah (Jerusalem 1971), pp. 52–60 (‫)אפאר שם מלך‬ [Hebrew]; Fleischer, “Aspects in the Poetry of the Early Italian Paytanim,” pp. 164–165 (‫)אשכים פני מלך‬. 11 J. Schirmann, New Hebrew Poems from the Genizah (Jerusalem 1965), pp. 424–426 [Hebrew]. 12 Klar, Megillat Ahimaaz, p. 16; R. Bonfil, History and Folklore in a Medieval Jewish Chronicle,‎ The Family Chronicle of Ahima’az ben Paltiel‎ (Leiden 2009), pp. 257–259.

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of the remote cultural centre (Eretz Israel). However, this modus vivendi is to be disrupted. A local scandal took place in Venosa, which involved a quarrel between men and women, both townsmen and villagers who arrived in town. Following this incident, Silano dares to interpolate the manuscript that is regularly used by the Palestinian preacher. He erases in advance two lines of the original text, and in their place he inscribes a trilinear verse of his own, succinctly summarizing the recent incident: ‫פּורקֹון‬ ְ ‫ וְ ִהּכּו ָה ֲאנָ ִׁשים ְּב‬/ ‫ּפּורנֹון‬ ְ ‫ וְ יָ ְצאּו ַהּנָ ִׁשים ִמ‬/ ‫ָּבאּו ָה ֲאנָ ִׁשים ְּב ָקרֹון‬ The men came in a carriage / And the women came out of the oven [place] / And struck the men with a fork

On Shabbat, the Palestinian preacher is dazzled to find this peculiar text within his manuscript, but reads the rhymed lines nevertheless. Silano then joyfully turns to the congregation, pointing out the reference to what had happened just yesterday: “Listen, [or: pay attention,] the Rabbi expounds to you / the quarrel which was made yesterday among you” (‫יבה ֶׁש ֶא ְתמֹול נֶ ֱע ְׂש ָתה ֵּבינֵ ֶיכם‬ ָ ‫ ַה ְּמ ִר‬/ ‫ּדֹורׁש ָל ֶכם‬ ֵ ‫)ׁש ְמעּו ֶׁש ָה ַרב‬. ִ Realising what happened, the Palestinian preacher becomes deeply offended, and this has grave consequences as far as Silano is concerned. As the preacher returns to the Yeshiva in Palestine, he reports the incident to its honourable members, and they decide to excommunicate Silano. This incident has been described by scholars as “a practical joke”13 played by Silano on the preacher, and the humorous manner of his address to the audience at the synagogue in indeed pointed out by the chronist: “And R. Silano in fun and laughter / replied to all those sitting there with ְ ‫ ְל ָכל ַה‬/ ‫)ור' ִס ָילנֹו ְּב ָלצֹון ו ַָצ ַחק‬. Accordamusement” (‫ּיֹוׁש ִבים ֵה ִׁשיב ְּב ַׂש ַחק‬ ing to Roberto Bonfil, the act was aimed at evincing “in a clear-cut manner to the people of Venosa the insufficient knowledge of the Palestinian sage.”14 At the same time, one can identify here a practical “declaration of cultural independence” on behalf of the local community. Silano, its learned representative, refuses to confine himself to the role of a mere translator, conveying the foreign emissary’s address to the native public. He is determined to insert into this “imported” text an original utterance of his own, which directly refers to an event that had just taken place in the local, immediate environment. 13 Schirmann, “The Beginning of Hebrew Poetry in Italy,” p. 251; S. Simonsohn, “The Hebrew Revival among Early Medieval European Jews,” in Salo Wittmayer Baron Jubilee Volume, S. Lieberman (ed.) (Jerusalem 1974), pp. 831–858 (p. 855). 14 Bonfil, History and Folklore, p. 83.



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It is probably not a mere coincidence that the rhyming words in Silano’s Hebrew verse are vernacular, of Greek or Latin origin (‫פּורקֹון‬ ְ ;‫ּפּורנֹון‬ ְ ;‫)קרֹון‬. ָ He deliberately let the local, “low” vernacular penetrate the Hebrew text, intermingling with its “high,” classical elements, thus creating an original, “localised” Hebrew idiom, which in this case could have been at least partly understood by some of the less educated members of the congregation (and hence Silano’s direct address to them to “listen” to what the Rabbi was just preaching to them!). The language of the early Italian piyyutim is indeed typically much more inclusive of non-Hebraic elements than the language of the classical Piyyut. As Fleischer pointed out, the Latin word ‫פּור ָקה‬ ְ ( furca), parallel to Silano’s ‫פּורקֹון‬ ְ (and attested in no other Hebrew text!) occurs in a Purim piyyut by Hedveta, considered to be the earliest known Hebrew poet from Italy.15 But the aforementioned amusing episode from the Chronicle of Ahimaatz can be seen as paradigmatic to the rise of the early Italian school of Hebrew poetry in a deeper, more essential sense. It exemplifies the process of creating original text by manipulating and interpolating a canonical “hypo-text,” imprinting on it a representation of specific present circumstances, of the current Sitz im Leben. Comparable tendencies can indeed be identified in the corpus of early Hebrew poetry from Italy, including our early Italian yoẓerot describing the world’s creation. 3 The theme of creation is not foreign to the yoẓer from its very beginnings, appearing already in the pre-paytanic stage of the fixed prose prayer text, which describes the rise of daylight as God’s merciful daily renewal of creation: “In mercy Thou givest light to the earth and to them that dwell thereon, and in Thy goodness renewest the creation every day continually” (‫ ובטובו מחדש בכל יום תמיד מעשה‬,‫המאיר לארץ ולדרים עליה ברחמים‬ ‫)בראשית‬. Yet in the earliest poeticised yoẓerot, such as the well known, unrhymed hymn ‫( אל אדון על כל המעשים‬God, the Lord Over All Works),16 only the creation of light and luminaries is mentioned, explicitly or implicitly paralleled to the rise of daylight, to which this liturgical setting is

15 E. Fleischer, “Chedweta birebbì Avrahàm, il primo compositore di brani liturgici ebraici in Italia” (Hebrew), Italia 2 (1981), pp. 7–26. 16 Elbogen, Jewish Liturgy, p. 96.

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b­ asically related. However, already at a fairly early stage, this independent motif was extended in some cases to paraphrasing the whole story of creation, while combining it with themes related to the liturgical occasion for which the given yoẓer was composed. An excellent example is ‫אומץ קצות‬ ‫דרכיך‬, a pre-classical, unrhymed yoẓer for Succoth, in which the entire creation account is presented while being continuously connected to the theme of the holy day, the Feast of Tabernacles, structurally represented in the poem by the recurrent epiphora ‫סוכה‬.17 Thus the creation of the sky is likened to the construction of the Succah (‫יה ְל ָּתה‬ ַ ‫ ִא‬/ ‫אֹוהל‬ ֶ ‫כ‬-‫י‬ ְ ‫תּוח‬ ֵ ‫יּמ ְצ ָּתה ְמ‬ ַ ‫ִא‬ ‫“ ַּכ ֻּס ָוּכה‬You fixed those-stretched-out-like-a-tent [i.e., the sky, cf. Is. 40, 22], / pitched like a Succah”), and the created planets are destined to provide the Succah’s ceiling and decoration (‫וּכה‬ ָ ‫ ַה ְד ַרת ֻס‬/ ‫“ ַה ֵּמ ֶהם ְל ָקרֹות‬so that by them one can roof / the beauty of Succah”). This very piyyut was “imported” from the East to Italy, and was included in the Italian rite; it might have influenced Hedveta’s yoẓerot for Succoth and Simhath Torah, which also combine the creation theme with the theme of the holy day.18 Another, distinct category is yoẓerot composed for a regular Shabbat, dedicated solely to the story of the creation week according to Genesis 1. This story originally culminates in the primordial Shabbat, which obviously functions here as an internal thematic “anchor” that binds the story to the text’s liturgical setting (unlike the external “anchors” that characterise “cosmogonic yoẓerot” for other occasions, as pointed out above). The aforementioned yoẓerot of Amittai, Shelomo Ha-Bavli, Zevadiah, and Qalon all belong to this group. In fact, this kind of yoẓerot is so typical of the early Italian paytanim and of their Franco-German successors, that it has been described as exclusive to the Piyyut of Christian Europe.19 However, the Cairo Genizah reveals that here as well the early Italian paytanim had their eastern, imported, models to follow. Numerous Genizah manuscripts contain various eastern “cosmogonic yoẓerot” for Shabbat, only a few of which were published hitherto. One of these, ‫אז עד‬ ‫לא בראשית‬, should probably be attributed to the renowned Elazar birabi Kalir.20 Along with the yoẓerot created for a specific Shabbat, based on 17 Fleischer, The Yoẓer, pp. 61–62. 18 The incorporation of creation motifs into Hedveta’s yoẓerot was pointed out by Fleischer as evidence of this poet’s Italian provenance; see Fleischer, “Chedweta birebbì Avrahàm,” p. 19, and his “Chedweta,” Italia 13–14 (2001), pp. 22–23. 19 Fleischer, “Chedweta,” p. 19. 20 J. Marcus, Liturgical and Secular Poetry (New York 1933), pp. 39–40 [Hebrew]; cf. Y. Granat, Before “In the Beginning,” Preexistence in Early Piyut, Against the Background of its Sources, PhD dissertation (Jerusalem 2009), pp. 13–14, n. 39; p. 84 [Hebrew].



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75

its special scriptural reading, of which several cycles were written in the East,21 there were, then, some eastern paytanim who composed, and some eastern congregations which used, yoẓerot that would suit any given Shabbat, and the creation account according to Genesis was indeed a natural subject matter for this purpose. In the Jewish communities of Italy, and Christian Europe in general, the Palestinian liturgical custom of reciting (and composing) yoẓerot designated for specific Shabbat days according to their scriptural readings was not adapted. Thus, early Italian congregations probably “imported” some eastern “cosmogonic yoẓerot” suitable for any Shabbat,22 and these texts later served as models for local paytanim in their own compositions. Is there anything unique, then, about the early Italian yoẓerot of this type that would distinguish them from their eastern antecedents? Several points may be noted in this regard. Firstly, some unique structural phenomena are detectable in the corpus. Thus, as Fleischer meticulously demonstrated, certain yoẓerot of Amittai’s and Shelomo Ha-Bavli’s employ atypical, innovative strophic patterns replacing the classical qiqlar pattern of trilinear strophes, almost universally prevalent in the eastern Yoẓer.23 Furthermore, as far as subject matter is concerned, it is noteworthy that some of the rabbinic traditions poeticised in our early Italian yoẓerot exceed the thematic repertoire typical of the world creation accounts in eastern piyyut. These motifs are often unparalleled in the Palestinian rabbinic compendia (on which early eastern piyyut generally relies), yet occur in the Babylonian Talmud, from which they indeed seem to have been borrowed by the early Italian paytanim. Such “Babylonian” elements appear already (alongside Palestinian ones) in Amittai’s yoẓerot, and their presence becomes more accentuated and dominant in the later yoẓerot by Zevadiah and Qalon. Let us consider one illustrative example of this phenomenon. In his yoẓer ‫אלף אלפים‬, Amittai refers to the phrase ‫ְל ִמינו‬ (“after his kind”) in God’s command at the third day of the creation week “Let the land bring forth grass, the herb yielding seed, and the fruit tree yielding fruit after his kind (‫”)ל ִמינֹו‬ ְ (Gen. 1:11). According to Amittai, God’s intention in this phrase was to make clear that the herbs and grass “shall not be brought forth mixed”: )‫(ּב ִלי ֵצאת ְמ ֻע ְר ָּב ִבים‬: ְ

21 Fleischer, The Yoẓer, pp. 111–112, 186–198. 22 See, for instance, Fleischer, The Yoẓer, p. 634, n. 27. 23 Fleischer, “Aspects in the Poetry of the Early Italian Paytanim,” pp. 150–156.

76

yehoshua granat 24‫ ְּב ִלי ֵצאת ְמ ֻע ְר ָּב ִבים‬,'‫ִּכּוֵ ן ְ'ל ִמינֹו‬

A specific rabbinic tradition is clearly, though telegraphically, conveyed here, in contents as well as in language. This tradition is attested neither in Palestinian rabbinic compendia nor in any eastern piyyut known to me, but it does appear in the Babylonian Talmud, Hullin 60a. An English paraphrase of this Talmudic text is included in Lewis Ginzberg’s Legends of the Jews: The command to bear seed after their kind was given to the trees alone. But the various sorts of grass reasoned (‫)נשאו דשאים קל וחומר בעצמן‬, that if God had not desired divisions according to classes (‫אם רצונו של הקב"ה‬ ‫)בערבוביא‬, He would not have instructed the trees to bear fruit after their kind with the seed thereof in it, especially as trees are inclined of their own accord to divide themselves into species (literally: “as trees are not inclined to be brought forth in a mixed up fashion”: ‫)שאין דרכן לצאת בערבוביא‬. The grasses therefore also reproduced themselves after their kinds.25

This very tradition is incorporated in Qalon’s yoẓer ‫ אאמיר אלהי עולם‬as well, but here it is presented in its entirety, drawing heavily on the specific phrases used in the aforementioned Babylonian Talmud passage: 26‫ֵאין ְרצֹונו‬

‫ּבּוביָה‬ ְ ‫ְּב ִע ְר‬

:‫ וְ נָ מּו‬/ ‫ְּב ָא ְמנֹו‬

‫קַ ל וָחֹומֶ ר‬

‫ֲע ָׂש ִבים‬

‫נ ְָׂשאּו‬

Piyyut as a liturgical practice and literary tradition was essentially a Palestinian legacy. The early Italian incorporation of “Babylonian” elements into piyyutim seems to manifest the “Palestinian-Babylonian blend,” or “mixture of Palestinian and Babylonian traditions in Italy,”27 and at the same time reflects the liberty taken by the early Italian Hebrew poets to forge their own new paths within given conventions.

24 Klar, Megillat Ahimaaz, p. 67. 25 L. Ginzberg, Legends of the Jews I (Philadelphia 1909), p. 19. In his annotation ad loc. (V, p. 28) Ginzberg points out the different interpretation of the same biblical verses in Palestinian sources. 26 Schirmann, New Hebrew Poems from the Genizah, p. 425. 27 Simonsohn, “The Hebrew Revival among Early Medieval European Jews,” p. 858, n. 73; Carmi, The Penguin Book of Hebrew Verse, p. 24. The issue of distinctly “Babylonian” traditions in early Italian piyyut deserves a comprehensive discussion. Two additional instances of apparent reliance on the Babylonian Talmud in Amittai’s oeuvre are pointed out in notes 32, 46 below.



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77

4 Alongside the aforementioned structural and thematic elements, certain rhetorical traits detectable in the corpus of early Italian yoẓerot deserve our attention. In two of Amittai’s “cosmogonic yoẓerot” a special kind of scriptural intertextuality occurs which is rather uncommon in a poetic context.28 Rather than implicitly relying on his biblical source, as is usually done in early piyyut, Amittai quotes or paraphrases in these instances a certain scriptural verse only after explicitly declaring in advance the specific biblical book in which they are written. In the yoẓer ‫אשיחה דברי נפלאותיך‬, a quotation from Job 40:30, “will the tradesmen heap up payment for him” (‫ )יִ ְכרּו ָע ָליו ַח ָּב ִרים‬is introduced by a phrase specifying that this verse is found “in Job” (‫)ּב ִאיֹוב‬: ְ 29.‫ יִ ְכרּו ָע ָליו ַח ָּב ִרים‬:‫ֶר ֶמז ָרמּוז ְּב ִאיֹוב‬

In the yoẓer ‫אלף אלפים‬, a paraphrase of Ps. 148:7, “praise the Lord from the Earth, O monsters, and all deeps,” (-‫ה ָא ֶרץ ַּתּנִ ינִ ים וְ ָכל‬-‫ן‬ ָ ‫ ה' ִמ‬-‫ַה ְללּו ֶאת‬ ‫)ּתה ֹמֹות‬ ְ is introduced by a phrase stating that “this utterance” (‫)מ ַען זֶ ה‬ ַ is asserted “in the book of Psalms” (literally “in the book of melodies,” ‫ְּב ֵס ֶפר‬ ‫)נִ ּגּונִ ים‬: 30.‫ יְ ַה ְללּוהּו ִמן ָה ֶא ֶרץ ְּתה ֹמֹות וְ ַתּנִ ינִ ים‬/ :‫ֱא ֶמת ַמ ַען זֶ ה ֻּתּיַ ם ְּב ֵס ֶפר נִ ּגּונִ ים‬

This almost footnote-like bibliographical reference may seem out of place in a liturgical poem addressed to God; it is clearly directed at the human listeners, the members of the congregation, rather than at the poem’s divine addressee. Indeed, it appears to be rather foreign to the poetic diction of classical piyyut, as if it were borrowed from the discourse of Midrash. On the other hand, the unusual phrase ‫“( ְּב ֵס ֶפר נִ ּגּונִ ים‬in the book of melodies”), used by Amittai in a “reference” to the book of Psalms, brings to mind the original meaning of the Greek phrase ἐν βίβλῳ ψαλμῶν (“in the 28 On a comparable phenomenon in piyyutim by the 10th-century Spanish-born Hebrew poet Yoseph Ibn Abitur, see Y. Granat, “Intertextual Polyphony, Scriptural Presence(s) in a Piyyutim Cycle by Yoseph Ibn Abitur,” Zutot, Perspectives on Jewish Culture, 1 (2002), pp. 64–76, esp. pp. 72–74 (interestingly, several evidences of early Italian influence on Ibn Abitur were pointed out: Fleischer, “Aspects in the Poetry of the Early Italian ­Paytanim,” pp. 159–161). “Scriptural references” of this type occasionally occur in later medieval piyyutim. 29 Klar, Megillat Ahimaaz, p. 68. 30 Ibid., p. 77.

78

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book of songs”), which functions in the same way, as an introduction to a psalmodic verse, in the New Testament.31 Interestingly, the very same pattern of explicit biblical citations, again taken from the book of Psalms, occurs in a vivid depiction of a JewishChristian disputation presented in ‫אין לנו אלהים עוד זולתך‬, a zulat by Amittai. The speaker refers to his rivals as “Knowers of the Book” (‫יֹוד ֵעי‬ ְ ‫ ֵ;ס ֶפר‬cf. Is. 29:11), that is to say, here, Christian polemicists well versed in the Bible. In their argument with him, these knowledgeable Christians point out the Jews’ inferior, humiliating political status, while quoting certain verses from (what they view as) the Old Testament, such as the reference to Israel’s ultimate fall in Am. 5:2: “The virgin of Israel is fallen, she shall no more rise” (‫תּולת יִ ְׂש ָר ֵאל‬ ַ ‫תֹוסיף קּום ְּב‬-‫ֹא‬ ִ ‫)נָ ְפ ָלה ל‬. The speaker, in turn, declares against them (‫מּולם‬ ָ ‫אתי ְל‬ ִ ‫] ָק ַר‬. . .[ ‫ )נֶ גְ ָּדם ְל ַד ֵּב ָרה‬that he “supports (or strengthens) his stakes with” (i.e., relies on) “the book of song” (‫דֹותי ְּב ֵס ֶפר ִׁש ָירה‬ ַ ‫)ס ַמ ְכ ִּתי יְ ֵת‬, ָ or “the songs of Psalms” (‫)ּב ִׁש ֵירי ִת ִּלים‬, ְ attributed to David, “the head of singers” (‫)ר ֹאׁש ְמ ַה ְל ִלים‬: the biblical book of Psalms. The two psalmodic verses he then quotes verbatim bear witness to God’s support of Israel in its suffering (Ps. 91:15: “I will be with him in trouble”; ‫אנ ִֹכי ְב ָצ ָרה‬-‫ּמֹו‬ ָ ‫)ע‬ ִ and to God’s promise of future redemption (Ps. 145:14: “The Lord upholds all that fall”; ‫הּנ ְֹפ ִלים‬-‫ל‬ ַ ‫)סֹומְך ה' ְל ָכ‬: ֵ ]. . .[ ‫ נֶ גְ ָּדם ְל ַד ֵּב ָרה‬,‫ַמ ַע ְר ֵכי ֵלב ֶא ֱערֹוְך‬ ]. . .[ "‫אנ ִֹכי ְּב ָצ ָרה‬-‫ּמֹו‬ ָ ‫"ע‬ ִ / :‫דֹותי ְּב ֵס ֶפר ִׁש ָירה‬ ַ ‫ָס ַמ ְכ ִּתי יְ ֵת‬ / ,‫] ְּכ ִב ְת ִה ַילת ר ֹאׁש ְמ ַה ְל ִלים‬. . .[ ‫מּולם‬ ָ ‫אתי ְל‬ ִ ‫ָק ַר‬ 32"‫הּנ ְֹפ ִלים‬-‫ל‬ ַ ‫"סֹומְך ה' ְל ָכ‬ ֵ / :‫ֶׁשל ֹא ַעל ִחּנָ ם ַׁשר ְּב ִׁש ֵירי ִת ִּלים‬

Polemical disputes between Christian and Jews, which involved intensive quotation of scriptural verses and arguments over them, are indeed well documented in the Byzantine context. Evidence of such events can be

31    Luke 20:42: “For David himself says in the Book of Psalms [ἐν βίβλῳ ψαλμῶν]”; Acts 1:20: “For it is written in the book of Psalms [ἐν βίβλῳ ψαλμῶν].” 32 Klar, Megillat Ahimaaz, p. 85. The juxtaposition of Am. 5:2 (‫נפלה לא תוסיף קום בתולת‬ ‫ )ישראל‬and Ps. 145:14 (‫ )סומך ה' לכל הנפלים‬seems to allude to Babylonian Talmud, Berakhot 4b: ‫ 'נפלה לא‬:‫ דכתיב‬,‫"מפני מה לא נאמר נו"ן באשרי? מפני שיש בה מפלתן של שונאי ישראל‬ ‫ 'סומך ה' לכל‬:‫ שנאמר‬,‫] אפילו הכי חזר דוד וסמכן ברוח הקדש‬. . .[ ’‫תוסיף קום בתולת ישראל‬ " '‫“( הנפלים‬Why is there no [verse beginning with the letter] nun in Ashre [the acrostic of Psalm 125]? because the fall of Israel’s enemies begins in it [this letter]. For it is written: ‘Fallen is the virgin of Israel, she shall no more rise’ (Am. 5,2) [. . .] Even so, David refers to it by inspiration and promises them an uplifting. For it is written: ‘The Lord upholdeth all that fall’ ” [Ps. 145:14]). English translations of Babylonian Talmud passages, here and below, are taken from the Soncino edition.



re-creating creation in the early italian yoẓer

79

found both in varied Christian sources,33 as well as in the Chronicle of ­ himaaz. Shephatia, Amittai’s father, visited King Basili in his ConstantiA nople palace, and the king “engaged him on matters of the Torah” (‫נכנס‬ ‫)עמו בדברי תורה‬. Hannanel, Shephatia’s brother, was similarly asked by the Bishop of Oria about “matters written in the Pentateuch” (‫בעסקי‬ ‫)דברים הכתובים באמון‬. In both episodes, the polemical tension is clear: eventually, both of the Christian notables are trying to Christianise their Jewish interlocutors, in vain.34 References to comparable disputations appear in other early Italian piyyutim by Amittai as well as by Shelomo Ha-Bavli, as noted by Klar and Fleischer,35 and are not known, to the best of my knowledge, in the corpus of earlier eastern Piyyut. This is a significant illustration of early Italian Piyyut’s noteworthy inclination to reflect actual historical circumstances; not unlike Silano’s infamous interpolation in the Palestinian preacher’s sermon, in a way, though in a very serious manner here. The explicit citation from scripture in the abovementioned zulat by Amittai brings to the fore the cited text as well the subject who cites it. The speaker refers in the first person singular to his utterance (‫ַמ ַע ְר ֵכי ֵלב‬ ]. . .[ ‫דֹותי‬ ַ ‫] ָס ַמ ְכ ִּתי יְ ֵת‬. . .[ ְ‫)א ֱערֹוך‬, ֶ made at a specific situation, i.e., in front of his Christian debaters (]. . .[ ‫מּולם‬ ָ ‫אתי ְל‬ ִ ‫] ָק ַר‬. . .[ ‫)נֶ גְ ָּדם ְל ַד ֵּב ָרה‬. A comparable foregrounding of the speaker’s own voice as present at a specific situation of discourse occurs in the early Italian “cosmogonic yoẓerot,” usually at the beginning, as demonstrated by the two examples below, taken from Amittai’s yoẓer ‫ אשיחה דברי נפלאותיך‬and from ­Shelomo Ha-Bavli’s yoẓer ‫אל נישא‬. These opening strophes consist of clearly selfreflexive statements. They present both their individual speaker, the cantor (chazan) who recites the piyyut (‫ה;א ַרּנֵ ן ְּב ִה ְת ַע ְל ָסה‬ ֲ ‫] ֲא ַס ְּפ ָר‬. . .[ ‫יחה‬ ָ ‫)א ִׂש‬, ֲ his address to God (/ ‫יּׂשא‬ ָ ִ‫נּותָך; ֵאל נ‬ ֶ ‫ ] ִּכי ֵאין ְּכ ֻא ָּמ‬. . .[ ‫אֹותיָך‬ ֶ ‫יחה ִּד ְב ֵרי נִ ְפ ְל‬ ָ ‫ֲא ִׂש‬ ‫)א ַרּנֵ ן‬, ֲ the social-ritual context in which he is situated, facing the congregation within the synagogue (‫יסה‬ ָ ֵ‫יתך; ַאּגִ יד ִּב ְכנ‬ ֶ ‫יֹוׁש ֵבי ֵב‬ ְ ‫)א ַרּנֵ ן ְּפנֵ י‬, ֲ and the

33 See P. Andvist, “The Greek Bible Used by the Jews in the Dialogues ‘Contra Iudaeos’ (Fourteenth Century CE),” in Jewish Reception of Greek Bible Versions; Studies in heir Use in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages, N. de Lange, J.G. Krivoruchko and C. Boyd-Taylor (eds.) (Tübingen 2009), pp. 235–262 (esp. pp. 240, 244–245, 250, 259–260) and earlier studies mentioned there; R. Zylbersztein, Byzantine Views on the Jews, Studies in Polemical Discourse in the Byzantine Empire from the Seventh Century through the Eleventh Century, PhD dissertation, Jerusalem, 2007 [Hebrew]. 34 Bonfil, History and Folklore, pp. 263, 285. 35 See the texts mentioned by Klar, Megillat Ahimaaz, p. 123 and Fleischer, The Poems of Shelomo Ha-Bavli, pp. 134–135.

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theme he elucidates in the poem, the creation of the world (‫עֹולם‬ ָ ‫יאת‬ ַ ‫ְּב ִר‬ ‫)ל ָב ֵאר‬, ְ to which Shelomo Ha-Bavli refers by citing the famous incipit of ִ ‫) ְּב ֵר‬: Gen. 1, “In the beginning, God created” (‫ֹלהים‬ ִ ‫אשׁית ָּב ָרא ֱא‬ ‫עֹותיָך‬ ֶ ‫ ֲא ַס ְּפ ָרה ְּכבֹוד ַמ ֲע ֶׂשה ֶא ְצ ְּב‬/ ‫אֹותיָך‬ ֶ ‫יחה ִּד ְב ֵרי נִ ְפ ְל‬ ָ ‫ֲא ִׂש‬ 36.‫נּותך‬ ֶ ‫ ִּכי ֵאין ְּכ ֻא ָּמ‬,‫עֹולם ְל ָב ֵאר‬ ָ ‫יאת‬ ַ ‫ ְּב ִר‬/ ‫יתָך‬ ֶ ‫יֹוׁש ֵבי ֵב‬ ְ ‫ ְּפנֵ י‬,‫ַּב ֲע ִמ ָידה ֲא ַרּנֵ ן‬ ‫יסה‬ ָ ֵ‫ ַאּגִ יד ִּב ְכנ‬/ ‫אֹומץ ָעשָׂ ה‬ ֶ / ‫ ֲא ַרּנֵ ן ְּב ִה ְת ַע ְל ָסה‬/ ‫יּׂשא‬ ָ ִ‫ֵאל נ‬ 37.‫ ָּב ֵאר ְּול ַד ְּב ָרה‬/ "‫"ּב ֵראשִׁ ית ָּב ָרא‬ ְ / ‫יֹוׁשר ֶא ְת ַח ְּב ָרה‬ ֶ ‫ ְּב‬/ ‫ְּבסֹוד ָּב ָרה‬

Pronounced self-reflexive statements of this sort are uncommon in eastern piyyut outside the specifically introductory Reshut genre;38 but in the corpus of early Italian “cosmogonic yoẓerot,” their presence is quite conspicuous. Interestingly, some very similar self-reflexive statements also occur in early Italian secular Hebrew poetry. Thus both the Chronicle of Ahimaaz itself, and the panegyric praising Paltiel and his son Chananel, the forefathers of Ahimaaz, which is attached to the Chronichle, open with elaborate statements, in which the individual speaker declares his intention to praise God through poetry (;‫ ַל ֲאדֹונֵ י ָה ֲאדֹונִ ים‬/ ‫ְל ַע ֵּלס ִּב ְרנָ נִ ים‬ ‫ֹלהים ייי ֵח ִילי‬ ִ ‫ ֱא‬/ ‫יּלּולי‬ ִ ‫רֹומם ְּב ִׁשיר ִמ‬ ֵ ‫)א‬, ֲ as he is situated among members of his congregation (‫ועד ְק ִהיּלֹות‬ ַ ַ‫בּורת נְ בֹונִ ים; ְּבתֹוך ו‬ ַ ‫ ַּב ֲח‬/ ‫מֹוׁשב זְ ֵקינִ ים‬ ַ ‫)ּב‬: ְ ‫ׁשֹוכן ְמעֹונִ ים‬ ֵ ‫ ְּפנֵ י‬/ ‫ּוב ֱאמּונִ ים‬ ְ ‫ ְּב ֱא ֶמת‬/ ‫יע ַּת ֲחנּונִ ים‬ ַ ִ‫ ְל ַה ְפּג‬/ ‫ּומ ֲענִ ים‬ ַ ‫יח‬ ַ ‫] ָא ֵחל ְּב ִׂש‬. . .[ ‫מֹוׁשב זְ ֵקינִ ים‬ ַ ‫ ְּב‬/ ‫ ַל ֲאדֹונֵ י ָה ֲאדֹונִ ים‬/ ‫ ְל ַע ֵּלס ִּב ְרנָ נִ ים‬/ ‫ ְלנַ ּגֵ ן ְּבנִ יּגּונִ ים‬/ ‫ ְל ַׁשּנֵ ן ְּב ִׁשיּנּונִ ים‬/ .]. . .[ ‫ועד ֲח ָכ ִמים‬ ַ ַ‫ ְּבו‬/ ‫ימים‬ ִ ‫] ְּב ִקיּבּוץ ְּת ִמ‬. . .[ ‫בּורת נְ בֹונִ ים‬ ַ ‫ ַּב ֲח‬/ ‫ֹלהים ייי ֵח ִילי‬ ִ ‫ ֱא‬/ ‫יּלּולי‬ ִ ‫רֹומם ְּב ִׁשיר ִמ‬ ֵ ‫ ֲא‬/ ‫חֹול ִלי‬ ְ ‫ ֶׁש ַבח ּוגְ ֻד ָוּלה ִל ְמ‬/ ‫ֶא ֵּתן ֶצ ֶדק ְל ֵא ִלי‬ ‫עֹוׂשה‬ ֶ ‫ ְּפנֵ י‬/ ‫ּומֹורא ְל ַחּלֹות‬ ָ ‫ימה‬ ָ ‫ ְּב ֵא‬/ ‫יע ְּת ִהּלֹות‬ ַ ‫ ִל ְׁשמֹו ַא ִּב‬/ ‫ועד ְק ִהיּלֹות‬ ַ ַ‫ְּבתֹוך ו‬ 39.]. . .[ ‫גְ דֹולֹות‬

Earlier, though humbler, comparable statements can also be found in the corpus of early Italian nuptial songs, some of them written by Silano and Amittai.40 Here we can find deictic references to the bridegroom and the bride ('‫)'ח ָתנִ ים‬, ֲ as well as to the groomsmen ('‫)'ׁשֹוׁשבינִ ים‬. ִ The poet declares that he presents “song and blessing” ('‫ ֶא ֶע ְר ָכה‬/ ‫ּוב ָר ָכה‬ ְ ‫)'ׁשיר‬ ִ in accordance with the Pentateuch and the Rabbinic law ('‫ּתֹורה וְ ַכ ֲה ָל ָכה‬ ָ ‫)'ּכ‬ ַ and towards 36 Klar, Megillat Ahimaaz, p. 66. 37 Fleischer, The Poems of Shelomo Ha-Bavli, p. 230. 38 E. Fleischer, Hebrew Liturgical Poetry in the Middle Ages (Jerusalem 2007), p. 196 [Hebrew]. 39 Klar, Megillat Ahimaaz, pp. 11–12, 37; Bonfil, History and Folklore, pp. 227–233, 338–339 (Hebrew text and English translation). 40 These interesting texts were only preliminarily published hitherto; see Z. Malachi, “Kovetz Shirei Zemer shel Piyyutei Italia ha-Kadmonim,” The A. M. ­Habermann Memorial Volume, Z. Malachi (ed.) (Lod 1983), pp. 73–102 [Hebrew].



re-creating creation in the early italian yoẓer

81

God ('‫ ֶאת ָׁש ָפל וְ ֶאת ַּד ָּכא‬/ ‫לּוכה‬ ָ ‫)'רם וְ נִ ָּׂשא ַּב ְּמ‬,41 ָ but at the same time he is very attentive to the lovely sight of the marrying couple and their groomsmen, a sight which he compares to roses in gardens (‫ ַּבּגַ ּנִ ים‬/ ‫ׁשֹוׁשּנִ ים‬ ַ ‫ְ'ּכ‬ '‫)מ ֻכּוָ נִ ים‬ ְ and to orchards of pomegranates ('‫)'ּכמֹו ַּפ ְר ֵּדס ִרּמֹונִ ים‬: ְ ‫ ֶאת ָׁש ָפל וְ ֶאת ַּד ָּכא‬/ ‫לּוכה‬ ָ ‫ ָרם וְ נִ ָּׂשא ַּב ְּמ‬/ ‫ּתֹורה וְ ַכ ֲה ָל ָכה‬ ָ ‫ ַּכ‬/ ‫ ֶא ֶע ְר ָכה‬/ ‫ּוב ָר ָכה‬ ְ ‫ִׁשיר‬ ‫ ְּכמֹו ַּפ ְר ֵּדס‬/ ‫ׁשֹוׁשבינִ ים‬ ִ ‫ּוכנֶ גְ ָדם‬ ְ / ‫ ַּבּגַ ּנִ ים ְמ ֻכּוָ נִ ים‬/ ‫ׁשֹוׁשּנִ ים‬ ַ ‫ ְּכ‬/ ‫ַמ ְר ֶאה ֲח ָתנִ ים‬ 42.‫ִרּמֹונִ ים‬

5 This noteworthy resemblance between early Italian secular and liturgical poems casts a light on a very special piece: the yoẓer ‫אדון מגיד מראשית‬ ‫אחרית‬,43 composed by Amittai on the occasion of his sister Cassia’s marriage, as we are told in a charming episode from the Chronicle of Ahima’az.44 Like the other “cosmogonic yoẓerot” for Shabbat, this yoẓer retells the story of the creation of the world. However, the whole creation process is recreated here, so that it is depicted as the large-scale arrangements for the forthcoming wedding of Adam and Eve. Thus, for example, the creation of the firmament on the second day (Genesis 1:6–8) is described as the establishment of “an upper storey, beautifully adorned” (‫ּומיֻ ָּפה‬ ְ ‫)ע ִלּיָ ה נָ ָאה‬, ֲ situated above the “wedding hall,” i.e., the earth, which had already been created on the first day. According to a rabbinic tradition, the heavenly angels who sing God’s glory were also created in the second day; in Amittai’s yoẓer, this is described as the appointment of groomsmen in charge of performing the music in the wedding party, “to sing and strike the timbrels” (‫תֹופ ָפה‬ ְ ‫)ל ַצ ְל ֵצל ְּול‬: ְ ‫תֹופ ָפה‬ ְ ‫ׁשֹוׁש ִבינִ ים ְל ַצ ְל ֵצל ְּול‬ ְ ‫ וְ ֵה ִכין‬/ ‫ּומיֻ ָּפה‬ ְ ‫ִּד ֵּבק ַּב ֵּׁשנִ י ֲע ִלּיָ ה נָ ָאה‬

Aesthetic qualities of creation (presented as the gradual preparations of the primordial wedding) are notably highlighted throughout the poem. Indeed, the Chronicle of Ahimaatz states that it was written by Amittai for his sister, “to ornate, decorate, and crown her” (‫יֹופי וְ ִעיּטּור וְ ֶכ ֶתר‬ ִ ְ‫נֹואי ו‬ ִ ‫ְּב‬ ‫[י]לּה‬ ָ ‫)ל ַה ְכ ִל‬ ְ on the occasion of her wedding:

41   See Is. 6,1; Is. 57, 15. 42 Malachi, “Kovetz Shirei Zemer,” p. 78. 43 Klar, Megillat Ahimaaz, pp. 60–62. 44 Klar, Megillat Ahimaaz, pp. 26–27; Bonfil, History and Folklore, pp. 295–301.

82

yehoshua granat ‫יֹופי וְ ִעיּטּור וְ כֶ ֶתר‬ ִ ְ‫נֹואי ו‬ ִ ‫ְּב‬

/ ‫אׁשית ַא ֲח ִרית' ִּב ְׁש ִב ָילּה‬ ִ ‫ּיֹוצר ָ‘אדֹון ַמּגִ יד ֵמ ֵר‬ ֵ ‫הּוא ִּפּיֵ יט ַה‬ 45.‫יהם ְּביַ ַחד ֶה ָח ָתן ִעם ַה ָּכ ָלה‬ ֶ ֵ‫ ְּכ ֶׁשזִ יוּוְ גו ְׁשנ‬/ ‫[י]לּה‬ ָ ‫ְל ַה ְכ ִל‬

One of the references to aesthetic qualities in the poem regards the stars. Whereas the moon and the sun, created on the fourth day, are described as two lanterns, the light of which would not be snuffed out by wind and rain (‫ּומ ַטר ֵמיֹות‬ ְ ‫רּוח‬ ַ ‫ ִמ ְּל ִה ָּכבֹות ֵמ ֲה ָפ ַחת‬/ ‫)ׁשנֵ י נֵ רֹות ְּכ ַפּנָ ִסיֹות‬, ְ the other luminaries (‫)וְ ַה ְּׁש ָאר‬, namely the stars, are “[meant] for beauty’s sake, to be as a Succah decoration” (‫טּורי ֻס ָּכה ִל ְהיֹות‬ ֵ ‫ ְּכ ִע‬,‫)לנֹוי‬: ְ ‫ּומ ַטר ֵמיֹות‬ ְ ‫רּוח‬ ַ ‫ ִמ ְּל ִה ָּכבֹות ֵמ ֲה ָפ ַחת‬/ ‫יעי ִה ְד ִליק ְׁשנֵ י נֵ רֹות ְּכ ַפּנָ ִסיֹות‬ ִ ‫ּוב ְר ִב‬ ָ .‫טּורי ֻס ָּכה ִל ְהיֹות‬ ֵ ‫ ְּכ ִע‬,‫וְ ַה ְּׁש ָאר ְלנֹוי‬

The mention of Succah decorations46 may seem out of place in the nuptial context. Surely, as Klar points out, the Succah here stands for the bridal canopy; yet the poet could have referred here more readily to the canopy (‫)ח ָּפה‬ ֻ itself, as he actually did five times earlier and later in this very piece.47 This unexpected detail could bring to one’s mind a much earlier yoẓer, of eastern provenance: ‫אומץ קצות דרכיך‬, the aforementioned pre-classical yoẓer for Succoth, which was incorporated into the Italian rite. As pointed out above, there, the Succah theme is interwoven into the creation story throughout. Thus the created planets’ destiny is none other than providing the Succah’s ceiling and decoration (‫וּכה‬ ָ ‫ ַה ְד ַרת ֻס‬/ ‫)ה ֵּמ ֶהם ְל ָקרֹות‬, ַ and created luminaries are said to be “for signs and for seasons” (Gen. 1:14) as well as for “settling the Succah” (‫וּכה‬ ָ ‫ ְּוליִ ּׁשּוב ֻס‬/ ‫מֹוע ִדים‬ ֲ ְ‫)וְ ֵהם ְלאֹותֹות ּו‬.48 The interweaving of the creation story and Succah theme in this much earlier yoẓer could have inspired Amittai in his impressive combination of the creation story with the wedding theme. Yet in ‫אומץ קצות דרכיך‬, as in comparable pre-classical yoẓerot, creation is combined with another theme dictated by liturgical circumstances; Amittai’s yoẓer, on the other hand, readjusts and reshapes the creation account according to the circumstances of a personal, festive family event, the wedding of the poet’s sister. As Roberto Bonfil points out, “the fantastic primordial nuptial

45 Klar, Megillat Ahimaaz, p. 27; Bonfil, History and Folklore, p. 301. 46 The phrase echoes the rabbinic term ‫‘( נוי סוכה‬adornment of Succah’), the earliest occurrence of which is found in the Babylonian Talmud, Succah 10b (‫'נויי סוכה אין ממעטין‬ '‫בסוכה‬, “The adornments of a Succah do not diminish [the height of ] the Succah”). 47 Line 6: '‫יסי ֻח ָּפה‬ ֵ ‫;'ּכל ַט ְכ ִס‬ ָ line 31: '‫בח ָּפה‬ ֻ ‫;'ח ָתן וְ ַכ ָּלה‬ ָ line 35: '‫;'ׁש ֵּתים ֶע ְׂש ֵרה ֻחּפֹות ָמלֹון‬ ְ line 58: '‫'ּוב ֵעת ֻח ָּפ ָתם‬. ְ 48 Fleischer, The Yoẓer, p. 62.



re-creating creation in the early italian yoẓer

83

ceremony that Amittai paints can be read as a virtual reproduction of the real ceremony actually attended by the entire community.”49 It is particularly noteworthy how phrases uttered as part of the wedding ceremony are incorporated into Amittai’s yoẓer at various points and contexts, yet always in direct speech. Some of these sayings are pronounced by angels witnessing the primordial wedding of Adam and Eve,50 whereas others are heard from participants in the wedding ceremony, taking place in the present era,51 or from those who shall witness the future redemption.52 Past, present, and future are thus vividly intermingled in this impressively multi-dimensional, jubilant text. Amittai’s nuptial Shabbat yoẓer ‫ אדון מגיד אחרית מראשית‬is indeed a singular poem, well deserving of its inclusion in Schirmann’s classical anthology of Hebrew poetry in Italy,53 as well as the comprehensive Penguin Book of Hebrew Verse, edited by the poet T. Carmi.54 Nonetheless, the strikingly original conflation of the creation narrative and the setting of the wedding ceremony here may be regarded as embodying a Januslike fusion of tradition and innovation, the liturgical and the secular, the divine and the human, which characterises the earliest Hebrew poetry created in the Italian peninsula.

49 Bonfil, History and Folklore, p. 140. 50 Lines 12, 15: ‫ יִ ְׂש ַמח ָח ָתן ִעם ַּכ ָּלה‬:‫] וְ ַהּכ ֹל ָענּו‬. . .[ ‫ ּב ֲֹאָך ְל ָׁשלֹום‬:‫“( וְ ִה ְכ ִריזּו לֹו ַמ ְל ָא ִכים‬And the angels announced, ‘Come in peace’ and everyone answered, ‘The groom shall rejoice in the bride’”). 51 Line 20: ‫רּוׁש ָליִ ם‬ ָ ְ‫ ְּכ ַהּיֹום ַהּזֶ ה ִּבי‬:‫“( ְמ ַסּיְ ִמים ִּב ְר ָכ ָתם‬They pronounce their blessing, ‘As this day in Jerusalem’”). 52 Line 22: ‫יענּו ַלּזְ ַמן ַהּזֶ ה‬ ָ ִ‫ ֶׁש ֶה ֱחיָ נּו וְ ִהּג‬:‫ֹאמר‬ ַ ‫“( וְ נ‬And we shall say, ‘[Blessed be God,] Who has sustained us and enabled us to reach this season’”). 53 J. Schirmann, Anthologie der Hebräischen Dichtung in Italien (Berlin, 1934), pp. 5–8 [Hebrew]. 54 Carmi, The Penguin Book of Hebrew Verse, pp. 235–238.

The Type of Community Minute Books— Some Preliminary Conclusions Yaakov Andrea Lattes Introduction Exactly 50 years ago, Professor Shlomo Simonsohn wrote an important pioneering article, published in Kirjath Sepher, concerning the various registers of the Jewish community of Verona.1 This article starts by arguing that one of the most important sources of information about the history of Jews in Italy is precisely those community registers. During the 16th century, as well as the 17th, the organisations and internal government institutions of many Jewish communities in Italy underwent a unique process as a result of which new forms of Jewish political and public life emerged. Probably the main manifestation of this process was the establishment in each community of a constitution, which laid down clear rules regarding the nature and functions of the various Jewish organisations and the relations between them.2 The first constitution of this kind was enacted in Rome in October 1524, when Jewish leaders called upon the well-known banker Daniel da Pisa to formulate his famous regulations.3 Until then, the Roman community obviously was somehow organised, but lacked a written constitution that enforced a balance between the various institutions and public offices, their powers,

1 S. Simonsohn, “Pinkassè ha-Kehillà be-Verona” (Hebrew), Kirjath Sepher 35 (1959), p. 127. 2 On this subject, see Y.A. Lattes, “Aspetti politici ed istituzionali delle comunità ebraiche in Italia nel Cinque-seicento,” Zakhor 2 (1998), pp. 21–37, and “The Constitutional Documents of the Italian Jewish Community,” Jewish Political Studies Review, 8/3–4 (5757/1996), pp. 11–65. 3 This first document was published by Attilio Milano in his article, “I capitoli di Daniel da Pisa e la comunità di Roma,” La Rassegna Mensile di Israel 10 (1935), pp. 410–426. The first idea of collecting various statutes in order to analyse the development of political thought was suggested to me by the late Professor Daniel Elazar. On this subject, see D. Elazar, “The Constitutional Documents of Contemporary Jewry: An Introduction to the Field,” in A Double Bond, D. Elazar, J.D. Sarna, and R. Monson (eds.) (Lanham 1992), pp. 3–34.

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their duties, and so on.4 Following in the footsteps of Rome, many other Jewish communities enacted constitutional regulations: Verona in 1539,5 Mantua in 1539 and again in 1587,6 Florence in 1572,7 Venice in 1603 with the first “Conventions,” which were renewed in 1624,8 Pisa in 1636,9 and Livorno in 1655.10 Almost all of these documents contained a provision to appoint a secretary or scribe to draw up decisions taken by communal committees,11 and despite Boksenboim’s claims,12 I am not convinced that these rules existed even before this documentation. As a consequence, from the beginning of the 16th century, there began to appear written minute books of communities, as well as other kind of registers of various companies and associations that were active within the community. Some Italian community registers, or minute books (in Hebrew ‫(פנקס‬ ‫קהל‬, have already been published. In particular, I refer to five modern editions: the Register of Verona (the oldest),13 the Register of Padua,14 the

4 A. Milano, Il Ghetto di Roma (Rome 1964), p. 175. 5 I. Sonne, “Avnè binyan le-toledoth ha-yehudim be-Verona,” Kovetz ʿAl Yad 3 (13) (1940), p. 151 [Hebrew]. 6 V. Colorni, “Le magistrature maggiori della comunità ebraica di Mantova,” Judaica minora (Milano 1983), pp. 273, 293–4. 7 U. Cassuto, “I più antichi capitoli del ghetto di Firenze,” Rivista Israelitica 9 (1912), pp. 203–211; 10 (1912), pp. 32–40, 71–80. 8 D. Carpi, “Taqqanoneha shel Qehillat Venezia, 1591–1607,” Galut ahar Golà, Mehqarim be-toledoth ʿam Israel muggashim le-Professor Haim Beinhart (Jerusalem 1988), pp. 451– 460; id., “Le ‘Convenzioni’ degli anni 1624 e 1645 tra le tre ‘Nazioni’ della Comunità di Venezia,” in Shlomo Simonsohn Jubilee Volume, Studies on the History of the Jews in the Middle Ages and Renaissance Period (Tel Aviv 1993), pp. 30–40. 9 R. Toaff, La Nazione ebrea a Livorno e a Pisa, 1591–1700 (Florence 1990), pp. 500–515. 10 R. Toaff, La Nazione ebrea, cit., pp. 555–568. 11  Simonsohn, “Pinkassè ha-Kehillà be-Verona,” p. 131; D. Carpi (ed.), Pinkas vaad K.K Padova [Minutes Book of the Council of the Jewish Community of Padua 1577–1603], 2 vols. (Jerusalem 1973–80), 1, para. 249 [Hebrew]; Y. Boksenboim (ed.), Pinkas Kahal Verona [Minutes Book of the Jewish Community of Verona], 3 vols. (Tel Aviv 1989–90), I, p. 35 [Hebrew], and also inside the Register, para. 3, p. 61; also D. Avron, Pinkas ha-kesherim shel kehillat Pozna [Acta electorum communitas judaeorum posnaniensium 1621–1835] (Jerusalem 1966), para. 12, p. 3, para. 64, at p. 14 [Hebrew]. 12 Boksenboim, Pinkasè Verona, p. 17 states: “From the style of the earlier agreements which dealt with appointments, it seems that this rôle was defined for the first time. But it is not true, because it reflects a writer’s routine, a mechanical repetition of previous agreements, words concerning repetitive issues, to save effort in drafting each time.” 13 Boksenboim, Pinkas Kahal Verona, cit. 14 D. Carpi, Pinkas vaad K.K Padova, cit.



the type of community minute books

87

Register of Venice,15 the Register of Rome,16 and finally the later one from Lugo di Romagna.17 In addition to these five documents, there are also several registers of synagogues and other public institutions, such as the Register of the Italian Synagogue of Venice recently published by the late Daniel Carpi,18 and the minute book of Ghemilut Hasadim from Rome, some parts of which were published by Ariel Toaff.19 Minute Books Outside of Italy Furthermore, if we look outside Italy, we will find similar documents in both Germany and Poland. The best known is the Register of the Four Countries Council (‫;)פנקס ועד ארבע ארצות‬20 other well-known documents of this kind include the minute book of Lithuania, published by Simon Dubnov21 and the Acta electorum, or Register of Electors of Posen.22 There are obviously other registers extant, such as the Kleve Register studied by Ytzhak Baer23 and the Schnaittach Register published by Meir Hildesheimer,24 and there are probably other Italian minute books still in unpublished manuscript form.

15  D.J. Malkiel, A Separate Republic: The Mechanics and Dynamics of Venetian Jewish Self-Government (1607–1624) (Jerusalem 1991). 16  Y.A. Lattes, Pinkas Kahal Kadosh Roma (1615–1695), PhD dissertation, Bar-Ilan University, Ramat Gan, 2003. A critical edition is being published by the Ben Zvi Institute of Jerusalem. 17  A complete edition of this register is also in press: M. Perani, Y.A. Lattes, A. Ferri, A. Pirazzini (eds.), La Comunità ebraica di Lugo nelle fonti documentarie interne, secoli XVI–XX. Testimonianze epigrafiche antiche e prime registrazioni amministrative, 1. Some excerpts of this document were published by B. Rivlin, “Pinkas K.K. Lugo YaZaV,” Asufot 7 (1993), pp. 173–213 [Hebrew]. 18  D. Carpi (ed.), Pinkas Vaad K.K. Italiani beVenezia 1404–1471 (Jerusalem 2003). 19  A. Toaff, Ghetto Roma ba-meà ha-XVI, (Hebrew) (Ramat Gan 1984). 20 I. Halperin (ed.), Pinkas Vàad Àrba Aratzot [Acta Congressus generalis Judaeorum Regni Poloniae 1580–1764], (Jerusalem 1945) [Hebrew]. Isaiah Sonne already sensed that there might be a link between the community organisation in Italy and in Poland; see I. Sonne, “I Congressi delle Comunità Israelitiche Italiane nei secoli XIV–XVI, ed il Sinodo dei Quattro paesi in Polonia,” L’idea sionistica (March 1931), pp. 3–19. 21  S. Dubnov (ed.), Pinkas ha-Medinà o Pinkas vaad hakehillot ha-rashiot bi-medinat Lita (Berlin 1925). 22 D. Avron, Pinkas Pozna, cit. 23 Y. Baer (ed.), Das Protokollbuch der Landjudenschaft des Herzogtums Kleve (Berlin 1922). 24 M. Hildesheimer (ed.), Pinkas Kehillat Schnaittach (Jerusalem 1992) [Hebrew].

88

1500

yaakov andrea lattes

1520

1540

Verona

1560

1580

Padova

1600

1620

Venice

1640

1660

1680

Rome

1700

Lugo

Figure 1. The Periodisation of Italian Minute Books Verona Padova Venice Rome Lugo

1539 1578 1607 1615 1621

1690 1590 1624 1695 1630

Since all these documents are now available to scholars, we should be able to draw some preliminary conclusions about their defining characteristics, as well as about the special perspective they can contribute. Periodisation of Community Documents The most obvious task is the periodisation of the aforementioned Italian documents. In fact, all the documents belong to the same historical period, starting with the first quarter of the 16th century. The Veronese Register



the type of community minute books

89

covers the years 1539–1690; the Paduan, the years 1578–1590; the Venetian the years 1607–1624; the Roman the years 1615–1695; and the Lugo minute book the years 1621–1630. In his article, Professor Simonsohn posed the question of whether there were earlier registers that had not yet been found,25 but we assume that this exact kind of register did not exist at all, and we shall see now immediately the reason for this supposition. The non-Italian communal documents also belong to this era. In fact, the Register of the Four Countries Council runs from 1581 to the late 18th century; the minute book of Lithuania starts in 1623 and ends in 1761; and the Register of the Electors of Posen begins in 1621 and was used until 1815.

1500

1520

1540

1560 1580

1600

Verona Rome

Padova Lugo

Lithuania

Posen

1620

1640

1660 1680 1700 Venice 4 Countries

Figure 2. Comparison with Registers of Other Countries 25 Simonsohn, “Pinkassè ha-Kehillà be-Verona,” p. 127.

90

yaakov andrea lattes Table 1. Topics Covered by the Minute Books ELECTIONS COUNCIL APPOINTMENTS TAXES LOANS BROTHERHOODS

Verona Padova Venice Rome Lugo

√ √ √ √ √

√ √ √ √ √

√ √ √ √ √

√ √ √ √ √

√ √

√ √

√ √

√

Other Common Elements But beyond this aspect of perodisation, there are many other common elements among the documents. I refer, of course, to the main subjects recorded, as well as to the literary style. In fact, all these documents deal mainly with two different topics: the organisation of the Jewish political system, i.e., the community, and its finances. A simple statistical table of the topics most frequently discussed yields a list like this: collection of taxes, elections of leaders and treasurers, loans, appointment of other community officials, and selection of new members of the council, fraternities, and other associations that operated within the community. The Italian documents are characterised by a similar literary style and frequent use of the same idiomatic expressions, such as ‫( לשים פרטי‬lasim parte) to indicate a proposal, and andar la palla, to vote. Also, ‫סדר הערכה‬ (seder ha’aracha) or ‫( תורת הערכה‬torat ha’aracha) designated tax regulations, while the verb ‫( נשאר‬nishar) meant “was decided.”26 Similarly it is important to note, as Boksenboim already wrote,27 that their literary style is somewhat skimpy; not one of these documents records the debates or the discussions that led to the decisions, or internal divisions along ideological or party lines. There is also no record of important events that had a great impact on the community. The clean style of writing, almost without corrections, suggests that the registers were not written during the committee meetings, but rather that the scribe recorded the decisions taken afterwards.28

26 This aspect of linguistic style has not yet been extensively studied. In any case, see Carpi, Pinkas vaad K.K Padova, cit., 1, p. 58; Boksenboim, Pinkas Kahal Verona, cit., 1, p. 13. 27 Boksenboim, Pinkas Kahal Verona, 1, p. 12. 28 Boksenboim, ibid., p. 11; Carpi, ibid., p. 57.



the type of community minute books

91

At this point we must ask the question why? Is there perhaps a common denominator or a link between the registers? Should they perhaps be considered to all belong to the same genre? Or rather are they the reflection of particular historical contingencies? Political Aspects Dealt with by the Registers Certainly, the bulk of entries recorded in these documents deal with the internal politics of Jewish communities. In fact, this kind of document sheds light on certain aspects of public life that until now have not been studied extensively.29 These include the different methods of holding elections, issues related to social stratification and poverty within the community, various manifestations of political behaviour, development of tax systems, and so on. These minute books provide many details that offer scholars fascinating and wide-ranging insights into the vibrant goings-on of Jewish communities. The fact that these documents were created by similar institutions in different communities suggests that they were based on a common model, or they all derive from a similar outlook and perspective, the same zeitgeist.30 As we have seen, all the Italian registers record, or at least refer to, a particular constitution that sets the parameters for the communal political system, which in turn provided the legal basis for the creation of the registers themselves. On the other hand, from what is described here, it can be deduced that if there were similarities between the different registers, there was also a similar political context. But that is also not entirely true; in fact, the political context varied from city to city, as did the attitude of the authorities towards the Jews, and as a consequence, the registers reflect only a similar social context, but not the same one. But one element that is quite astonishing is the level of political control. At a time when power was absolute, and whoever held it could act he saw fit without reporting to any other authority, the demand for control

29 On this topic, see Lattes, “Aspetti politici ed istituzionali delle comunità ebraiche in Italia nel Cinque-seicento,” cit. 30 It was Daniel Elazar who suggested looking at Jewish institutions created in a particular period, although in different countries, as a way of identifying a single stage in the development of political thought. See D. Elazar and S. Cohen, The Jewish Polity: Jewish Political Organization from Biblical Times to the Present (Bloomington 1985), pp. 160–203.

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placed some limits on his actions. In Rome, for example, all the institutions of power were under the control of particular entities such as the Difensori dei Capitoli. Obviously, this begs the question of whether the situation stemmed from a well-established Jewish political tradition, dating back even to medieval jurists like Rabbì Shelomò ben Adereth,31 who upheld the need to restrict the power of rulers via an external body or an outside influence. For instance, the statutes of the Roman municipality, published just one year before those of the Jewish community, placed all actions of the governors under the control of the so-called “Defenders of the Decrees.”32 The way in which the city of Rome organised itself therefore had a clear influence on the Jewish community. Sometimes these documents also reflect social tensions between different ethnic groups or social classes; to mediate these tensions, it was decided to abide by a set of written rules. This was, for instance, the situation in Rome and in Verona, where disputes were resolved according to the rules and power-sharing arrangements laid down by the constitutional documents. Methods for Holding Elections Another very interesting feature of these kinds of documents is the descriptions of the various elections for positions of responsibility within the community. In fact, through an analysis of these documents, it is possible to draw a comprehensive picture of the various electoral systems throughout Italy. Although Boksenboim stated that the registers of Verona do not report election rules,33 the first paragraph of the register that he published states that the eleven committee members were elected by bossole e ballotte, that is, they were elected directly by the public,34 and this was the case also in Padua and Venice.35 Electoral rules can also be inferred from the Register of Rome. In Rome, the sixty members of the community council were selected through

31 On this specific subject, see Responsa Rabbì Shelomò ben Adereth (RaShBA) (ed. var.) IV, No. 185. 32 E. Rodocanachi, Les institutions communales de Rome sous la papauté (Paris 1901), p. 248; Y.A. Lattes, Una società dentro le mura (forthcoming). 33 Boksenboim, Pinkas Kahal Verona, cit., 1, p. 13. 34 Ibid., p. 59. 35 Carpi, Pinkas vaad K.K Padova, cit., p. 30; Malkiel, A Separate Republic, cit., p. 11.



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Table 2. Methods for Holding Elections Verona Padova Venice Rome Lugo

Direct elections Direct elections Direct elections Co-optation Drawing lots

co-optation, i.e., the members themselves voted on the inclusion of a particular candidate for life.36 Another common method was the candidates’ lot, a method practised in Lugo di Romagna.37 Incidentally, from the community registers it is possible to glean a plethora of personal names, which could form the basis for an important database for onomastic research, as well as for social studies. Very often, the Jewish leadership was drawn from a small group of bankers and moneylenders, rather than the majority, but poorer, classes. Therefore, the data contained in these documents is often helpful in reconstructing the stratification of social classes and even demographic statistics: who had political rights and who did not, who could vote and who could not, who could be elected, and so on. The Register of Rome reveals much about social divisions within the Jewish population there. The Genre of Minute Books As we have seen, all these documents ultimately represent a single uniform model with recurring components and characteristic forms. An examination of these many similarities allows us to speak about a specific genre of community register, at least with regard to settlements in Italy. Furthermore, we must note that these documents have nothing to do with the establishment of the ghettos, but rather are the reflection of a phase of Jewish political and organisational awareness and thinking. This awareness marks the transition from a disorganised, or at least unsophisticated, 36 See, for example, in the Register of Rome, paragraphs 30, 69, 71, and so on, in Lattes, Pinkas Kahal Kadosh Roma (1615–1695), cit. This electoral system was established by Daniel da Pisa in his famous statute in paragraph 8; see A Milano, “I Capitoli di Daniel da Pisa,” p. 412. 37 Perani, Lattes, Ferri, Pirazzini, La Comunità ebraica di Lugo nelle fonti documentarie interne, cit., in the manuscript at page 4b.

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lenders 5%

rich and middle class 20%

Figure 3. Various Population Strata within the Jewish Community of Rome lenders 85%

rich and middle class 15%

poor 0%

Figure 4. Distribution of Wealth

Jewish infrastructure towards an organised community with a range of institutions and electoral procedures, as well as an internal division between different social classes and political leadership. In other words, only in the middle of the 16th century do the Jewish settlements reach the stage of organisation that permitted the establishment of their own institutions. This phase is marked primarily by the issuance of constitutions, such as the Chapters of Daniel da Pisa, but also the establishment of political institutions, and thus the recording of institutional activities. For this reason, minute books dating from earlier periods have not been found in Italy.



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This phenomenon is unique. Before this period, if there had been community rules or other types of records, these were ad hoc documents written for a particular purpose but never intended to serve as the permanent chronicle of a congress convened regularly to provide for the needs of the community. Conclusion In conclusion, it seems possible to include the community minute books in the context of the long-term process of Jewish urbanisation, of which the ghetto is only one aspect, as evidence of one phase in the development of Jewish political and legal institutions. This phase is indeed recognisable and very important, and the registers mark a shift in which institutions became more complex and representative. However, it is possible that this political and legal process was not particular to Italian Jewish communities, but rather indicative of a much more general trend, extending also to other European countries. Therefore, in this context, we can easily relate the Italian Jewish registers to those of Eastern Europe.

Again on the Mobility of Italian Jews Between the Middle Ages and the Renaissance Michele Luzzati On the occasion of the celebration of fifty years of activity on the Italia Judaica project, I wish to emphasise once again the need to study the Jewish presence in northern and central Italy between the late Middle Ages and the early modern ages as the history of one complete entity, from a socio-economic as well as from a cultural-religious point of view. Italian Jews of that time period constituted a virtual res pubblica, building a true homeland, albeit without territory.1 The conditions that allowed the development of such a unitary and socially supportive context, separate from territorial continuity, were dependent on the fact that, for a series of religious, political, economic and social reasons, Italian Jews moved without interruption from place to place, with extreme haste and without traumatic consequences. The Italian Jews’ mobility and “nomadism” between the 14th and 16th centuries have not passed unobserved in historiography. For example, Umberto Cassuto wrote in 1918 “the Jews’ habitation of a fixed place was typically precarious and unstable in nature, and usually ended once the causes that had given rise to it were no longer relevant.”2 In 1996, Saverio Campanini noticed that “the study of the history of the Jews in general, and especially of the Jews as actors in the economic sphere, highlights a thick entanglement of relationships and an uninterrupted migratory flux (articulated along complex directives) that cross the limits of municipalities, as well as of regional and often national contexts.”3

1 M. Luzzati, “Banchi e insediamenti ebraici nell’Italia centro-settentrionale fra tardo Medioevo e inizi dell’Età moderna,” in Gli ebrei in Italia. I. Dall’alto medioevo all’età dei ghetti (Storia d’Italia, Annali 11, C. Vivanti (ed.)) (Turin 1996), pp. 212–223. See also A. Guetta, “L’Italia e la ‘via ebraica alla modernità,’” in Ebraismo, D. Bidussa (ed.) (Turin 2008), pp. 7–8. 2 U. Cassuto, Gli ebrei a Firenze nell’età del Rinascimento (Florence 1918), p. 230. 3 S. Campanini, “Un intellettuale ebreo del Rinascimento: ‘Ovadya Sforno a Bologna e i suoi rapporti con i cristiani’, in Verso l’epilogo di una convivenz, Gli ebrei a Bologna nel XVI secolo,” M.G. Muzzarelli (ed.) (Florence 1996), p. 101.

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Notwithstanding this awareness of the overwhelming propensity toward Jewish mobility, apparently the concept that the main mode of Jewish settlement was prolonged residency, and that nomadism and itinerancy constituted only an epiphenomenon, has never been challenged. This is attested to by tens of essays and monographs that illustrate the settlement of Jews in this or that city or minor centre. Such works are based substantially on the assumption of a residential stability, generation after generation, of Jews descending from the firstcomers. In my judgement, instead, nomadism constituted—in the aforementioned period—the norm of every Jewish settlement, while fixed dwellings should be considered the exception. It is for this reason that, with the exception of Rome and a few other places, the Jews of northern and central Italy did not create proper communal bodies and institutions.4 The proof of the predominance of nomadism in residential patterns can be obtained from family histories, a field of enquiry that should represent the “new frontier” of research on the Jewish presence in Italy from the late Middle Ages to the early modern era.5 It is certainly true that the historiography dedicated to Italian Jews has included the study of family histories,6 yet such studies have suffered from a limited geographical 4 A. Veronese, “Zum Verhältnis von jüdischer Familie und Gemeinde,” in Ober- und Mittelitalien während des 14. und 15. Jahrhundert, Jüdische Gemeinden und ihr christlicher Kontext in kulturräumlich vergleichender Betrachtung (5–18. Jaharhundert, C. Cluse, A. Haverkamp and I.J. Yuval (eds.) (Hamburg 2003), pp. 283–292; see also S.B. Siegmund, The Medici State and the Ghetto of Florence. The Construction of an Early Modern Jewish Community (Stanford 2006), pp. 135–168. 5 M. Luzzati, “Le ricerche prosopografiche sulle famiglie ebraiche italiane (secoli XIV– XVI),” M.G. Muzzarelli and G. Todeschini (eds.), La storia degli ebrei nell’Italia medievale: tra filologia e metodologia (Bologna 1990), pp. 58–63; id., “Dalla Toscana a Napoli (e ritorno) alla fine del Quattrocento: note sulla koiné ebraica italiana,” in Medioevo Mezzogiorno Mediterraneo. Studi in onore di Mario del Treppo, G. Rossetti and G.i Vitolo (eds.), II (Naples 2000), pp. 163–174; id., “La circolazione di uomini, donne e capitali ebraici nell’Italia del Quattrocento: un esempio toscano-cremonese,” in Gli ebrei a Cremona. Storia di una comunità fra Medioevo e Rinascimento, G.B. Magnoli (ed.) (Florence 2002), pp. 33–52; id., “Le famiglie de Pomis da Spoleto e Cohen da Viterbo e l’emigrazione ebraica verso la Toscana meridionale nella seconda metà del Cinquecento,” Tracce . . . percorsi storici culturali e ambientali per Santa Fiora, IX (2004), pp. 149–160. See also A. Castaldini, Mondi paralleli. Ebrei e cristiani nell’Italia padana dal tardo Medioevo all’Età moderna (Florence 2004); A. Veronese, Prosopografia di famiglie ebraiche del nord e centro Italia, La prosopografia como método de investigacion sobre la edad media (Zaragoza 2006), pp. 45–53; M. Romani, “La tela del ragno: famiglie e banchi ebraici nell’Italia Centro-Settentrionale (Secc. XIV– XV),” Cheiron. Materiali e strumenti di aggiornamento storiografico, 45–46 (XXIII, 2006) [“Il ruolo economico della famiglia”], pp. 87–109. 6 We can refer to, for instance, U. Cassuto, “La famiglia di David da Tivoli,” Il Corriere israelitico, XLV (1906–1907), pp. 149–152, 261–264 and 297–303; id., La famiglia da Pisa (Florence 1910); id., “Ancora sulla famiglia da Pisa,” La Rivista israelitica, X (1913–1915),



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horizon as well as the scarcity of research dedicated to single settlements and a preoccupation with the systematic registration of the names of Jews dwelling there attested by the sources. Recent developments in the historiography of the Jews of Italy and especially the great endeavours dedicated to the formation of vast documentary collection (such as those created within the framework of the Italia Judaica project) simplify efforts to compare and confront data relative to different sites.7 This greatly enhances the possibility to verify, through family histories, the issue of nomadism. We can even observe that documentary collections, as well as studies dedicated to single sites in which there was an effort to systematically gather all names indicated in the sources, would not be well used if, beyond the application of that data to local histories, we do not proceed to place such information within a wider context. It is exactly through the prism of family histories that, in the last few years, I have been able to reconstruct some family nuclei that moved throughout northern and central Italy (and beyond) between the 14th and 16th centuries.

pp. 48–59; P. Norsa, “Una famiglia di banchieri. La famiglia Norsa. (1350–1950). Parte prima, secoli XIV e XV,” Bollettino dell’Archivio del Banco di Napoli, VI (1953), pp. 1–79; id., Parte seconda: secolo XVI, XIII (1959), pp. 59–191; V. Colorni, “Genealogia della famiglia Finzi. Le prime generazioni,” in Judaica Minora. Saggi sulla storia dell’ebraismo italiano dall’Antichità all’Età Moderna (Milan 1983), pp. 329–342; id., “I Da Spira avi dei tipografi Soncino e la loro attività nel Veneto e in Lombardia durante il secolo XV,” ibid., pp. 343–388; id., “Genealogia della famiglia Colorni,” ibid., pp. 637–660; A. Veronese, Una famiglia di banchieri ebrei tra XIV e XVI secolo: i da Volterra. Reti di credito nell’Italia del Rinascimento (Pisa 1998); D. Carpi, L’individuo e la collettività. Saggi di storia degli ebrei a Padova e nel Veneto nell’età del Rinascimento (Florence 2002). Finally, an issue of Zakhor. Rivista di storia degli ebrei d’Italia, III (1999), is dedicated to the topic “Ebrei, famiglie, città”; very important here is the essay of E. Horowitz, “I Carmi di Cremona: una famiglia di banchieri ashkenaziti nella prima età moderna,” pp. 155–170. 7 It is easy to trace the recent historiography on the Jews of Italy through A. Luzzatto, Biblioteca Italo-Ebraica, 1974–1985 (Milan 1989); M. Consonni and S. Simonsohn, Biblioteca italo-ebraica. Bibliografia per la storia degli Ebrei in Italia, 1986–1995 (Rome 1997) and S. Simonsohn and M. Consonni, Biblioteca italo-ebraica. Bibliografia per la storia degli Ebrei in Italia, 1996–2005 (Florence 2007). As for the collections of documents, 1982 saw the beginning of the monumental Documentary History of the Jews of Italy, directed by Shlomo Simonsohn; contributors include Simonsohn for the Duchy of Milano (four volumes) and Sicily (18 volumes), R. Segre for the Piedmont (three volumes), A. Toaff for Umbria (three volumes), K. Stow for Rome (two volumes) and R. Urbani and G.N. Zazzu for Genoa (two volumes). For Venice, see P.C. Ioly Zorattini (ed.), Processi del S. Uffizio di Venezia contro ebrei e giudaizzanti (1548–1734), 14 volumes. For Ferrara, see A. Franceschini, Presenza ebraica a Ferrara. Testimonianze archivistiche fino al 1492, Paolo Ravenna (ed.) (Florence 2007). Finally, very important to the history of the Jews in Italy is S. Simonsohn, The Apostolic See and the Jews (492–1555) (Toronto 1988–1991), eight volumes.

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To begin with, we can refer to the case of the physician Allegro di Vitale. Born in the Marche (Papal States)—in Recanati to be precise—his presence is attested in Padua, Venice, and Vicenza (Republic of Venice) between the late the 14th century and early 15th century. His son Vitale moved from Vicenza to Imola (Romagna), where he lived in the mid-15th century. From Imola, one of Vitale’s sons, Raffaele, went to live in Modigliana (Republic of Florence), where he managed a local loan institution. Within approximately 100 years, the members of this family resided in no less than six different cities.8 We can also make reference to a family whose founder, Guglielmo di Musetto, came from Fermo, in the Marche, and settled in Modena around the end of the 14th century. While maintaining a loan institution in Modena, at the beginning of the following century he also started operating in Ferrara (Duchy of Este) and later in Bologna (Papal States) and Vicenza (Republic of Venice). His son Musetto settled in Vicenza in the third decade of the 15th century. The economic activities of Musetto’s five male descendants were carried out predominantly in Vicenza, but some left the city. Simone di Musetto, for instance, moved to Pontremoli (Duchy of Milan), where for a few decades, he owned the local loan institution. Yet by the end of the century his children, then known by the surname da Pontremoli, had abandoned the place where they had been born and moved first to Ferrara and then to Mantua. Within little more then a century, four generations of the same family lived in at least eight different cities.9 Another representative case is that of the descendants of the physician and moneylender Angelo di Salomone da Roma, witnessed in the Marche, near Ancona, in 1342, and from whom come, among others, the da Volterra family. Angelo di Salomone moved to Fabriano, always in the Marche, and later to Bologna, where he bought a house in 1365. Between 1369 and 1371, he was in Padua. He died sometime before 1377. His son Genatano also

8 M. Luzzati, “Nota per lo studio della formazione dei cognomi toponimici ebraici italiani: il caso dei ‘Modigliani’ e ‘Modiano’ ” Materia Giudaica. Rivista dell’associazione italiana per lo studio del giudaismo, VI/1 (2001), pp. 115–119; id., “Una famiglia e quattro cognomi toponimici nel corso di un secolo: contributo alla storia degli ebrei d’Italia nel tardo Medioevo in una prospettiva interlocale,” Quel mar che la terra inghirlanda. In ricordo di Marco Tangheroni, F. Cardini and M.L. Ceccarelli Lemut (eds.), II (Pisa 2007), pp. 469–477. 9 M. Luzzati, “Nuove acquisizioni sul prestito ebraico a Pontremoli e sulla formazione del corrispondente cognome toponimico,” Archivio storico per le province parmensi, S. IV, LX (2008), pp. 85–119.



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lived in and around Bologna and Padua, and died in 1378; like his father, the sources refer to him with the last name da Fabriano. We know that Genatano di Angelo di Salomone had four sons in the areas of Bologna, Padua, Ferrara, Imola, Cesena, Oliveto, Budrio and, in particular, Volterra between the end of the 14th century and the early years of the 15th century. They all went by the last name da Bologna.10 These examples give a clear idea of the impermanence of Jewish settlements in the various towns and minor centres. On a broader scale, we can identify one migration for each generational change: fathers lived in one place, the children moved to a second place, and the grandchildren to a third. But we must consider, beyond such generational cleavages, the repeated movements of one single individual as well as the cases of contemporaneous residencies. Antonella Campanini, among others, has well identified this phenomenon of contemporaneous residencies thus: “how many movements the single Jewish individual counted within his or her lifetime, how many times his parents and their ancestors had moved before, sometimes also how much they were compelled by their economic interests to reside even for very short periods of time in different places.”11 In my opinion, this research approach should be expanded to encompass the few cases in which a fixed residency seems to be the norm and not the exception. I touched upon this subject on the occasion of a conference held in Speyer in 2002,12 but I intend to further develop it here with reference to one of the families whose fixed residency in one town has been confirmed. The example I will use is the da Volterra family, to whose nomadism in the last part of the 14th century and the beginning of the 15th century I made reference earlier. Notwithstanding this precedent, for over one century starting at the beginning of the 15th century, the main branch of the family settled permanently in the Etruscan town of that name, as 10 Veronese, Una famiglia, cit., pp. 7–10, and M. Luzzati, “ ‘Nomadismo” ebraico nel Quattrocento: il medico ebreo Genatano da Volterra ‘pendolare’ fra Toscana e Sardegna,” Gli ebrei in Sardegna nel contesto mediterraneo. La riflessione storiografica da Giovanni Spano ad oggi. Atti del Convegno Internazionale di Studi, Cagliari 17–20 novembre 2008 = Materia giudaica. Rivista dell’associazione italiana per lo studio del giudaismo, XIV/1–2 (2009), pp. 195–207. 11 A. Campanini, “Una famiglia ebraica a Bologna tra Medioevo ed Età moderna: i Finzi,” Zakhor. Rivista di storia degli ebrei d’Italia, III (1999), p. 81. 12 M. Luzzati, “Northern and Central Italy: Assessment and Further Prospects,” The Jews of Europe in the Middle Ages (Tenth to Fifteenth Centuries): Proceedings of the International Symposium Held at Speyer, 20–25 October 2002, C. Kluse (ed.) (Turnhout 2004), pp. 191–199.

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Alessandra Veronese has shown in her book. Veronese has clarified that using Volterra as a base, the members of that family were able to develop a very rich network of financial, mercantile, and personal relations. What is more striking is that such networks were woven through uninterrupted travels and changes of residency of the various family members.13 Genatano di Buonaventura di Genatano, physician and moneylender, was probably born in Bologna at the end of the 14th century and followed his father to Volterra, then returned to Bologna to study at the university. He later lived for a while in Volterra but then moved to Sardinia for 25 years (his presence is attested in Cagliari, Oristano, and Porto Torres). Finally he went back to the continent, considering—initially—to participate in the moneylending business in Pistoia and Siena, and then deciding to practise medicine in the tiny state of Piombino, where he probably died about 1462.14 One of Genatano’s brothers, Abramo di Buonaventura, whose last name by then was da Volterra, moved from the Tuscan city to Verona, where he worked as a so-called pezzaria (second-hand dealer). Having returned to his homeland for a few years, in 1469 he sailed to Catalogna on a Florentine ship. In 1471, he moved to Gaeta in southern Italy, maybe spending some time in Naples and Cosenza as well. He remained in that region until his death, c. 1486.15 A third brother, Emanuele, was in business as a merchant first in Volterra, where he worked alone. He then diversified his interests to include trading with Sardinia: he was most probably in Cagliari in 1424–1425.16 No later than 1434, he started to work in Pisa’s moneylending enterprise, owned by Isacco di Emanuele da Rimini, founder of the da Pisa family. In 1438, he moved to Florence, where he worked for da Rimini’s local moneylending enterprise, as well as for another great Jewish banker, Jacob di Salomone di Matassia da Perugia. Though working in Florence, Emanuele still owned the moneylending enterprise in Volterra. According to Veronese, Emanuele lived in Volterra with a certain measure of continuity between 1438 and 1447, but it is far more likely that his permanent residence was located in Florence where, on 7 May 1443, he became a partner in one of the four moneylending enterprises of the city. In 1459, again in Florence, he became a partner—together with Vitale di 13 Veronese, Una famiglia, cit., pp. 129–164. 14 Luzzati, “Nomadismo,” cit. 15 Veronese, Una famiglia, cit., ad indicem. 16 Luzzatti, “Nomadismo,” cit.



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Isacco da Pisa—in the business society responsible for the banco del Borghese. Two years earlier, he had become a partner in the banco di Siena and two years later, owner of the banco di Arezzo. He died in Florence between the end of 1466 and the beginning of 1467.17 The lives of Emanuele’s children were much more adventurous. The best known of them, Buonaventura, or Meshullam, da Volterra, not only travelled to Catalonia with his uncle Abramo in 1469, but in 1481, he took a trip to Jerusalem, stopping over at Naples, Palermo, Alexandria, Cairo, Gaza, Hebron, Jerusalem, Beirut, Damascus, Cyprus, Rhodes, Crete, and Venice. The chronicles of his voyage, which was probably repeated in 1487, are extant.18 We must also examine the life of a brother of Meshullam/Buonaventura, Lazzaro di Emanuele di Buonaventura da Volterra, whose movements can be traced for about half a century. Lazzaro was born between 1446 and 1447, the son of Emanuele di Buonaventura di Genatano and Dolce di Dattilo di Angelo da Corneto (actually Tarquinia). We do not know if he was born in Volterra or Florence, but certainly he lived in those two towns during his early years. He was emancipated from his father at a very young age, on 23 April 1459, and obtained from him the sum of 2,000 fiorini. Beyond the banco di Volterra he was probably a partner, following in the footsteps of his father, of the banco di Siena, the banco della Vacca in Florence and, from 1461, the banco di Arezzo. We can presume that from the age of fifteen, Lazzaro had already travelled and lived for a short while in the Florentine state as well as in Siena. In 1464, Lazzaro was condemned for a relationship with a Christian woman and shortly afterward, he fathered an illegitimate son, Saul or Samuele or Simone. Being, presumably, the child of a Jewish woman, maybe a maid, the boy was accepted and raised within the family. We know that in 1473, this Saul was living with the family in Volterra and was beneficiary of a sum of 500 fiorini, granted to him by the mother of Lazzaro, his natural father. Not yet twenty years of age, on 12 May 1465, Lazzaro resided in Florence and on 26 August of the following year, he was in Siena for the signing of

17 See Veronese, Una famiglia, cit., ad indicem and E. Borgolotto Zetland, Les Juifs à Florence au temps de Cosme l’Ancien, 1437–1464: une histoire économique et sociale du judaisme toscan, Ph.D. dissertation in history under the direction of Carol Iancu (Université Paul Valéry-Montpellier III, 2009), ad indicem. 18 Veronese, Una famiglia, cit., ad indicem and Meshullam Da Volterra, Viaggio in Terra d’Israele, A. Veronese (ed. and transl.) (Rimini 1989).

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a marriage contract with Susanna, daughter of the banker Jacob di Consiglio da Toscanella. Then, between the end of 1466 and the beginning of 1467, the death of his father forced Lazzaro to assume new and greater responsibilities. The family continued to control the moneylending enterprise in Volterra and to participate in the banchi of Siena, Arezzo, and Florence. Lazzaro continued to frequently arrive in and leave Volterra, where in 1469 he was sentenced for gambling, and Florence, where his presence is testified in August 1467 and August 1469. By the end of that month and again in the autumn, he was in Volterra; on the latter occasion, he was in the company of two of his brothers, with whom he nominated a representative to go to Ancona. From numerous notary documents, it is clear that Lazzaro continued to repeatedly travel between Florence (where he lived with the family in a house of the Strozzi) and Volterra in 1470, 1471 and 1472.19 In 1472, the extremely violent Florentine repression of the rebellion in Volterra foretold the destruction of the Jewish moneylending enterprise and a drastic reduction in the family’s financial resources.20 The da Volterras maintained their main residence in the Etruscan town, where they still ran the banco, but at the same time the family sought out new ventures in the banking industry, focusing on southern Italy, namely Naples, Gaeta, and Cosenza. Starting in 1473, Lazzaro moved not only between the cities of Volterra, Florence, Siena, and Pisa, but also repeatedly travelled to the Kingdom of Naples. The venture capital used for the investments in southern Italy came, for the most part, from the

19 Veronese, Una famiglia, cit., ad indicem. See also M. Luzzati, “Lo scudo della giustizia dei ‘gentili’. Nascite illegittime e prostituzione nel mondo ebraico toscano del Quattrocento,” Quaderni storici, 115 (2004), pp. 195–196 and 209–210. 20 Archivio Di Stato Di Firenze (hereafter, ASFi), Notarile Antecosimiano (hereafter, NA), n. 16824, formerly P 349, 1454–1469, ser Pietro di Antonio da Vinci, cc. 308r–310v, cc. 329v–333r e cc. 434r–437v (Florence, 12 May 1465); ASFi, NA, n. 16826, formerly P 350, 1465–1467, ser Pietro di Antonio da Vinci, cc. 304v–305r (Florence, 13 August 1467); ASFi, NA, n. 16827, formerly P 351 (1468–1469), ser Pietro di Antonio da Vinci, cc. 166rv (Florence, 26 August 1469); ASFi, NA, 16828, formerly P 351, 1470–1472, ser Piero di Antonio da Vinci, cc. 33v (Florence, 22 June 1470), 119v (Florence, 5 February 1471), 134v (Florence, 30 August 1471), 197r (Florence, 25 October 1471), 203r (Florence, 23 November 1471), 207r (Florence, 26 November 1471), 279v (Florence, 30 June 1472), etc.; ASFi, NA, n. 20095, formerly T 336, 1465–1479, ser Benedetto di Niccolò Tempi c. 124r (Florence, 6 December 1471, house of the Strozzi); M. Luzzati, La casa dell’ebreo. Saggi sugli ebrei a Pisa e in Toscana nel Medioevo e nel Rinascimento (Pisa 1985), p. 210 (Siena, 26 August 1466); id., Lo scudo, cit., p. 209; Veronese, Una famiglia, cit., ad indicem.



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great banker Vitale di Isacco da Pisa, whose daughter, Anna, Lazzaro (not yet aged 30) became his second wife in 1475.21 Lazzaro’s travels had to be particularly strenuous between 1477 and 1480, and he certainly journeyed repeatedly in the Kingdom of Naples in the second half of the 1480s. The documents testify to his presence in various other places as well. For example, on 24 May 1479, Lazzaro was in Gubbio, where he was setting up a new business.22 Between June 1488 and June 1491, he was frequently in Umbria and in Marche (Norcia, Amatrice, Camerino, and Ascoli) for economic and domestic purposes.23 On 10 October 1489, he was in Rieti, where he gave a power of attorney to his cousin Ventura or Buonaventura di Aronne da Este, also known as “il Fiorentino,” to give liberty to one of Lazzaro’s female slaves, who probably lived with the family in Florence or Volterra.24 The centre of his interests remained in Tuscany, in the Florentine State, where he was a partner in the banchi in Florence and Volterra, and in the State of Siena, where he was a partner in the banco of the capital city and where he moved his residence at the end of the 1480s. From 1490, after the death of his father-in-law Vitale da Pisa, for whom he wrote a eulogy, Lazzaro probably did not leave Tuscany much, although he continued to move frequently between Siena, Volterra, and Florence.25 Attested again in Florence on 22 and 28 March and on 13 May 1496, and in Volterra on 3 December 1496,26 Lazzaro wrote his testament in Siena on 27 July 1497. By 16 January 1498, he was dead. Shortly afterwards, his wife, Anna di Vitale da Pisa and their children moved from Volterra to Ferrara via Florence.27 The marriage of Lazzaro’s daughter to Simone, one of the sons of the great banker Noè di Manuele Norsa, was probably a factor in 21 Luzzati, La casa, cit., p. 262; Veronese, Una famiglia, cit., ad indicem; Luzzati, Lo scudo, cit., p. 210. 22 Veronese, Una famiglia, cit., p. 139. 23 ASFi, NA, n. 16835, formerly P 354, 1489–1491, ser Piero di Antonio da Vinci, cc. 273r–274v (Florence, 16 February 1491) and cc. 322v–325v (Florence, 6 July 1491). 24 See V. Flavio and A. Papò, Res publica hebreorum de Reate (Rieti 2000), p. 170. 25 Veronese, Una famiglia, cit., pp. 38, 39 and 139; see also ASFi, NA, n. 16829, formerly P 351, 1470–1481, ser Piero di Antonio da Vinci, cc. 515r–517v and ASFi, NA, n. 16835, formerly P 354, 1489–1491, ser Piero di Antonio da Vinci, cc. 7r–8r (Florence, 10 April 1489). For the eulogy in honour of Vitale da Pisa see Cassuto, Gli ebrei a Firenze, p. 265. 26 ASFi, NA, n. 16837, formerly P 356, 1495–98, ser Piero di Antonio da Vinci, cc. 170r, 177v–179r and 206r; Veronese, Una famiglia, cit., p. 210. 27 ASFi, Otto di Guardia e Balia dell’età repubblicana, n. 110, cc. 74v–75r, 91v and 107r (Florence, 7, 16 and 27 June 1498); Archivio di Stato di Ferrara, Archivio Notarile Antico, matr. 283, ser Bartolomeo Codegori, pacco 18 and pacco 19, 7 June 1499, pacco 20, 17 January, 8 May and 5 June 1500.

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the choice of Ferrara as a refuge following the crisis in Jewish moneylending in the Florentine State.28 From these rapid biographical sketches of Lazzaro di Emanuele da Volterra, I believe it is evident that a long residential permanence in a particular town by a Jewish family—lasting even a century—does not discount the sort of nomadism that is, in my opinion, the more typical mode of Jewish presence in central-northern Italy between the Middle Ages and the Renaissance. In any case, the existence of fixed residences of some families is not a contradiction. So it was that Emanuele, son and sole heir of Lazzaro di Emanuele da Volterra, was born and lived his early years in Tuscany. He then moved with his mother and sisters to Ferrara at the beginning of the 16th century, but already by 1521, his new residence was Città di Castello, in the Papal States.29

28 ASFi, NA, n. 16837, formerly P 356, 1495–98, ser Piero di Antonio da Vinci, c. 206r (Florence, 13 May 1496). 29 Veronese, Una famiglia, cit., p. 211.

Towards Jewish Emancipation in the Grand-Duchy of Tuscany: The Case of Pitigliano Through the Emblematic Figure of David Consiglio Davide Mano Premise The subject of this paper is the cultural and political developments that paved the way for the civic recognition of Italian Jews during the second half of the 18th century. The coming of age of the Italian Enlightenment and the inauguration of the politics of reform are two essential factors that set in motion the initial steps in this direction.1 In this paper, I will explore some of the socio-political effects of the reformist age on the Jewish condition from the standpoint of the GrandDuchy of Tuscany, with special emphasis on the reign of Grand-Duke Peter Leopold of Lorraine (1765–1790).2 A further glimpse into some of the later developments of the 1790s will provide a deeper insight into the historical process. Throughout the second half of the 18th century, Hapsburg-Lorraine Tuscany gave rise to one of the most advanced regimes in the Italian peninsula, putting into practice theories conceived by French Physiocrats and/or inspired by the British political model. As far as the Jewish question was concerned, even earlier than his brother Joseph II’s Tolleranzpatenten, Peter Leopold was celebrated for having pioneered a series of regulations 1 For discussions of the European reformist movements of the second half of the 18th century, see for instance F. Venturi, Settecento riformatore, 5 vols. (Turin 1969–1990); L. Guerci, L’Europa del Settecento (Turin 2006). On Jewish Haskalah (enlightenment), see S. Feiner, The Jewish Enlightenment (Philadelphia 2004). For the Italian debates see, for instance, M. Caffiero, “Tra Chiesa e Stato. Gli ebrei italiani dall’età dei Lumi agli anni della Rivoluzione,” in Storia d’Italia. Annali 11. Gli ebrei in Italia, C. Vivanti (ed.), II (Turin 1997), pp. 1089–1132; G. Luzzatto Voghera, Il prezzo dell’eguaglianza. Il dibattito sull’emancipazione degli ebrei in Italia (1781–1848) (Milan 1998). 2 About the Grand-Duchy of Tuscany under Peter Leopold of Lorraine, see, for instance, L. Mascilli Migliorini, “L’età delle riforme,” Il Granducato di Toscana. I Lorena dalla Reggenza agli anni rivoluzionari, F. Diaz, L. Mascilli Migliorini and C. Mangio (eds.) (Turin 1987), pp. 249–421. On the role of the Hapsburg monarchy in Italy in the 18th century, see C. Capra, “Hapsburg Italy in the Age of Reform,” Journal of Modern Italian Studies 10/2 (2005), pp. 218–233.

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that was intended to break the segregation of Tuscan Jews by granting them rights similar to those of other citizens.3 These remarkable laws originated within the broad theorisation of a new form of citizenship and administration, and were conceived by the Florentine bureaucracy in an attempt to adapt enlightened concepts to the Tuscan cultural context and political tradition. Their actual implementation came about with the riforma delle comunità or municipal reform—a groundbreaking Physiocratic reform that gained international praise for the Grand-Duke and his ministries.4 Against the backdrop of these developments, which took place between the 1770s and the 1790s, I will pay particular attention to the case of Pitigliano, a rural town in the Lower Province of Siena, which hosted one of the major Jewish settlements in Tuscany, smaller only than those of Leghorn, Florence, Pisa, and Siena.5 Did the municipal reform effectively change the status of the local Jewish community and the condition of the Jewish individual? Did it inspire Jews with the desire for emancipation? To answer these questions, I will investigate the experiences of one member of the Pitigliano community—David Consiglio—whose personality is emblematic of the Jewish situation in the late 18th century. With his adherence to religious tradition, desire for social mobility and awareness of emancipation, Consiglio’s personal story reflects the complicated sociocultural context of Tuscan Jewry in the age of enlightened absolutism.6 3 See U. Wyrwa, “ ‘Perché i moderni rabbini pretendono di dare ad intendere una favola chimerica . . .’. L’Illuminismo toscano e gli ebrei,” Quaderni Storici 103/1 (2000), pp. 139–161. For the situation at Trieste after Joseph II’s Tolleranzpatenten, see L.C. Dubin, “The Ending of the Ghetto of Trieste in the Late Eighteenth Century,” in Il mondo ebraico. Gli ebrei tra Italia nord-orientale e Impero asburgico dal Medioevo all’età contemporanea G. Todeschini and P.C. Ioly Zorattini (eds.) (Pordenone 1991), pp. 287–310. 4 See the essential work by B. Sordi, L’amministrazione illuminata. Riforma delle comunità e progetti di costituzione nella Toscana leopoldina (Milan 1991). About Jewish citizenship, see M. Verga, “Proprietà e cittadinanza. Ebrei e riforma delle comunità nella Toscana di Pietro Leopoldo,” in La formazione storica della alterità. Studi di storia della tolleranza nell’età moderna offerti a Antonio Rotondò, H. Mechoulan, R.H. Popkin, G. Ricuperati and L. Simonutti (eds.), III (Florence 2001), pp. 1047–1067. 5 See R.G. Salvadori, La comunità ebraica di Pitigliano dal XVI al XX secolo (Florence 1991); M. Livi-Bacci, “Una comunità israelitica in un ambiente rurale: la demografia degli ebrei di Pitigliano nel XIX secolo (sic, but XVIII),” Studi in memoria di Federigo Melis, V (Naples 1978), pp. 99–137. 6 On Jewish conditions under the Italian enlightened absolutisms, see the relevant contributions by Simonsohn, Segre and Rosa in Italia Judaica: Gli ebrei in Italia dalla segregazione alla prima emancipazione. Atti del III Convegno internazionale, Tel Aviv, 15–20 giugno 1986 (Rome 1989). For the Hapsburg context in Italy, see M. Del Bianco Cotrozzi, “Tolleranza giuseppina ed illuminismo ebraico: il caso delle unite principesche contee di Gorizia e Gradisca,” Nuova rivista storica, LXXIII (1989), pp. 689–726; P. Bernardini, La

towards jewish emancipation in the grand-duchy of tuscany 109 Two events in the life history of David Consiglio are particularly revealing: his election to a municipal office in 1783 and his excommunication in 1793. These incidents are better understood if considered in the light of the broader context of the new legislation on Jewish citizenship. While comparing Tuscan municipal regulations, I will examine specific problems concerning Jewish eligibility to pursue public office. The reactions expressed by Jewish leaders in the wake of these changes are also of considerable interest. Municipal Reform in the Grand-Duchy of Tuscany Municipal reform was the most complicated and ambitious project in Peter Leopold’s plan of modernisation, in light of the juridical-institutional and social-political aspects involved. Carried out all over the GrandDuchy between 1772 and 1786, it also proved to be the most representative example of that “cautious and gradual experimentation”7 characteristic of Tuscan reformism. This enormous blueprint of improvements gave shape to a reorganisation of the peripheral administrative and judicial systems, and consequently to a reconsideration of their relationship with the central authority. In a dialectic of centralisation-decentralisation of authority, municipal freedom redesigned “the lines of control and the role of the magistrature”8 (the peripheral administrative bodies), minimising the functions of the centre and reinforcing local structures. The process of preparing for the reform in the 1760s and early 1770s led to homogenisation of the state judicial system. At the same time, the creation of new provinces imposed a division of jurisdictional powers that had great influence on the territorial identity of Tuscany. A series of economic liberalisations—such as the introduction of free trade and free property transaction—preceded the municipal reform all sfida dell’uguaglianza. Gli ebrei a Mantova nell’età della rivoluzione francese (Rome 1995); M. Del Bianco Cotrozzi, “Gli ebrei dell’area alto-adriatica nell’età delle riforme e della prima emancipazione: istituzioni, cultura e religione,” L’area alto-adriatica dal riformismo veneziano all’età napoleonica, Atti dei convegni tenutisi a Venezia e Vicenza nel 1997, F. Agos­ tini (ed.) (Venice 1998), pp. 271–305. 7 Migliorini, “L’età delle riforme,” p. 303. The gradual application of the municipal reform over the entire Grand-Duchy comprised different stages, from the first experiments in 1772 to the regulation for the town of Siena on 29 August 1786. 8 Sordi, L’amministrazione illuminata, p. 14.

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over the Grand-Duchy. Sales of national real estate (allivellazioni) were carried out in anticipation of a process of land reappropriation to Tuscan peasants and local owners from the middle social strata.9 At the core of the reform were the Physiocratic ideas, according to which public administration was considered an economic enterprise to be run by a new group of interested residents, whose only requisite for eligibility was ownership of real estate. From the Grand-Duke’s perspective, local administrations would turn into communities of possessors—the status of ownership being the “precondition for political representation.”10 As Bernardo Sordi has pointed out, the project for these new communities fostered a policy aiming at the “transformation of social distinctions”11 in the sphere of citizenship. In fact, this new condition for citizenship was meant to stimulate a change in Tuscan leadership. According to the enlightened administration, municipal officers had to be selected through a new system: a random drawing from two electoral bags containing the names of local owners. The bags were set up each year before the new electoral draw: the five highest officers of the Magistrato were drawn from a first bag that included the names of the major local owners, while the ten councillors of the Consiglio Generale (the General Council) were drawn from a second bag, usually containing the names of the small landowners.12 In addition, the process of municipal reform linked representation with the censo (taxable quota). A remarkable innovation that accompanied the creation of the “emancipated communities” was the establishment of a new taxation system: in place of the many ancient levies regularly enforced on individuals, a single and centralised tax—the tassa di redenzione (redemption tax)—was imposed on real estate. The possessors,

9 As regards the important stage of the allivellazioni, see, for instance, Migliorini, “L’età delle riforme,” pp. 309–322. 10 A. Chiavistelli, “Il Comune di Pietro Leopoldo: il Regolamento per la Comunità di Firenze del 20 novembre 1781,” Annali di Storia di Firenze, I (2006), p. 182. 11  Sordi, L’amministrazione illuminata, p. 14. 12 The five highest officers generally included a Gonfaloniere and four Priori. But the number of municipal officers in the Magistrato and the Consiglio Generale could differ from place to place, depending on particular regulations and statutes. For the situation in the Lower Province of Siena, see D. Marrara, “La Provincia Inferiore Senese e la sua riforma comunitativa (1765–1787). Profilo storico-istituzionale,” Rassegna Storica Toscana, 48/2 (2002), pp. 411–422.

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suddenly becoming the interested parties and administrative actors, were also to take on the role of “new protagonists of the fiscal system.”13 Tuscan Jewish Experiences and Attitudes Towards the Reforms Peter Leopold’s regulations had an enormous impact on Tuscan society and a significant influence on Tuscan Jews. Unlike in the past, Jews were granted Grand-Ducal protection, not only because of their commercial prominence but also by reason of the civic capacities they acquired with the new decrees. Ancient laws limiting Jewish rights were now subject to a re-examination in light of the liberalist plan. As a result, most of the arbitrary impositions placed upon the Jewish communities were abrogated, while other discriminatory clauses fell out of use and/or were replaced by enlightened legislation.14 Tuscan Jews were granted religious freedom and could exercise the right of patria potestas (the father’s authority over his sons) in cases of kidnapped children and forced baptisms. In the social and cultural spheres, Jews were given access to literary and scientific academies and could finally obtain doctoral degrees at Tuscan universities.15 In line with the general plan, innovations in the economic policy granted the Jews full freedom of property and trade. Liberalisation led to a temporary revival of Jewish commercial activities: Tuscan Jewish traders began to develop their commercial initiatives in large-scale modalities and in unprecedented contexts. In some cases, they also started a process of renewal in the network of property relations: they profited from the public sales of urban and rural buildings and often became local

13 Sordi, L’amministrazione illuminata, p. 121. The new community had to be considered as “a society of persons that pay pro rata both for public weights, like royal and general taxes, and for social weights, like local expenses imposed by the communities to benefit their particular economy,” ibid., p. 201 [my translation]. 14 The very origins of this process must be traced to the middle of the 18th century, during the Lorraine Regency, when Jews experienced the actual opening of the ghettoes. Obligations to wear the badge and forcibly listen to Christian sermons also fell out of use. During this phase, Giulio Rucellai’s tolerant views stand out; see Verga, “Proprietà e cittadinanza,” pp. 1054–55. 15 See R.G. Salvadori, “La condizione giuridica degli ebrei nel periodo leopoldino,” L’Ordine di Santo Stefano e la nobiltà toscana nelle riforme municipali settecentesche. Atti del convegno, Pisa, 12–13 maggio 1995 (Pisa 1999), pp. 247–259.

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possessors.16 Since in principle, municipal power was no longer to be determined by birth or religious affiliation but had to stem from the “modern” nexus with property and taxable quota, their status as owners and taxed residents gave them access to eligibility and representation in the local administrative bodies.17 Various reactions and different perceptions can be detected in Jewish internal debates. On the one hand, a large part of Tuscan Jewry showed a favourable attitude as regards the new political course. Their desire for social improvement and civic recognition found clear expression in some of the Grand-Ducal innovations. At the same time, Peter Leopold’s emancipatory policy included recognition of the autonomy of Jewish communitarian bodies, especially as far as religious matters were concerned.18 On the other hand, such changes could not prevent internal debates from arising, particularly in connection with contemporary social developments. Some of the immediate effects of the reformist age raised serious concerns among religious leaders: socio-economic growth was producing new phenomena of disaggregation and loss of traditional ties. In the eyes of Tuscan rabbis, Jewish orthodoxy, tradition, social cohesion, and selfassistance were in serious danger. Their response to the cultural decline of their communities included new policies of religious conservatism.19 In reality, towards the end of the 18th century, the process of social emancipation and cultural enlightenment still involved a small minority 16 In Florence, Jews became owners of the ghetto quarter in 1779–1780, following a public auction; see R. Salvadori, The Jews of Florence. From the Origins of the Community Up to the Present (Florence 2001), p. 41. In Pitigliano, they turned into major owners in the local rural economy; see D. Barsanti and L. Rombai, “Dal controllo feudale all’organizzazione borghese di un territorio maremmano: l’alienazione delle fattorie granducali di Pitigliano, Sorano, Castell’Ottieri e S. Giovanni intorno al 1780,” Bollettino della Società Storica Maremmana, 41–42 (1981), pp. 20, 34–37. 17 Verga, “Proprietà e cittadinanza,” passim. 18 About the Jewish communitarian system in the 18th century, see M.F. Maternini Zotta, L’ente comunitario ebraico. La legislazione negli ultimi due secoli (Milan 1983); Id., “La condizione giuridica delle comunità ebraiche italiane nel secolo XVIII,” La questione ebraica dall’illuminismo all’Impero (1700–1815). Atti del convegno della Società italiana di studi sul secolo XVIII, Roma, 25–26 maggio 1992, P. Alatri and S. Grassi (eds.) (Naples 1994), pp. 235–250. 19 Tuscan rabbis strongly expressed their conservatism in opposition to socio-cultural disaggregation and proposals for the modernisation of Jewish customs and self-government. After a false announcement about a 1796 rabbinical synod held in Florence, in which the religious leaders allegedly appeared to view reforms in Jewish life and rituals favourably, the rabbis of Leghorn and Florence strongly rejected any talk of change. See Wyrwa, “Perché i moderni rabbini,” p. 145. On the first Jewish manifestations of laicism and scepticism during the 18th century, see S. Feiner, Shorshei ha-khilun. Matiranut ve-safkanut be-yahadut ha-meah ha-shmoneh esreh (Jerusalem 2010) [Hebrew].

towards jewish emancipation in the grand-duchy of tuscany 113 of Tuscan Jews—mostly traders and bankers in culturally privileged positions, among the first to fix their domicile outside the Jewish quarters. In most cases, a prevailing sense of fear of getting out of the ghetto still persisted in the psychological attitude expressed by large strata of the Jewish population, particularly in those towns where Jews had a long experience of segregation—as was the case in Florence and Siena.20 Jewish emancipation started to be manifest within the communities only at a later date. In the most advanced Jewish milieu at Leghorn, it was only during the French democratic interlude in 1799 that harsh internal conflicts revealed calls for internal renewal. On this occasion, lower social strata represented by Italiani Jews attacked the conservative oligarchy of the Sephardic merchant leadership.21 As we will see, poor and backward Pitigliano surprisingly experienced this kind of social conflict before the Leghorn debates and the French occupation of 1799: claims against the privileged leadership of the community had already emerged in the mid-18th century and troubled local Jewish life for decades afterward. The Question of Jewish Eligibility According to Bernardo Sordi, Tuscan reformism defined and altered itself “in a continuous matching between [. . .] theoretical models and daily practice.”22 It is in this sense that the municipal reform achieved an intermediate goal in the direction of enlightened administration and civil emancipation. As a matter of fact, the non-homogeneous application of the reform generated multiple self-contradictions that seriously altered the initial theorisation. Leopold’s enlightened bureaucracy had to cope with many difficulties and take into account the resistance of the ancient nobiliary leadership.

20 The function of the ghetto as a separation between Jews and Christians “began to lose importance during the reign of the House of Lorraine in 1755 [. . .]. The obligation to close the gates tacitly ended, but the Jews continued to fulfil this duty on their own for 80 years more,” see Salvadori, The Jews of Florence, pp. 40–41. 21 See R. De Felice, “Per una storia del problema ebraico in Italia alla fine del XVIII secolo e l’inizio del XIX. La prima emancipazione (1792–1814),” Italia giacobina R. De Felice (ed.) (Naples 1965), p. 360; C. Mangio, “La communauté juive de Livourne face à la Révolution française,” Les Juifs et la Révolution française. Problèmes et aspirations, B. Blumenkranz and S. Soboul (eds.) (Toulouse 1976), pp. 191–210. 22 Sordi, L’amministrazione illuminata, p. 12 [my translation].

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The need for political compromises and the strong persistence of traditional structures made modernisation efforts less successful, in the urban contexts even more than in the rural areas. Confrontation with the different needs of the local communities led Tuscan reformers to recognise peculiar statuses and grant special concessions. Hence, the choice to operate in each district through two regulations: a “general” one, to be valid for the entire district, and a “particular” one, regulating specific demands of the individual communities.23 This accidental path also affected the gradual process of granting the Jews rights equal to those of the Christian population. The remarkable advancement of their civil status came up against deep-rooted discriminatory attitudes, whose purpose was that of limiting emancipatory prerogatives. This was particularly evident on the occasions in which Jewish eligibility became relevant. In principle, access to citizenship was extended to Tuscan Jewish possessors, whose qualification for office was based, like that of Christian citizens, on their status as local owners; yet, even though Jews were included by law in the electoral bags, if their names were drawn for office, they were still subject to discriminatory treatment. For Tuscan Jewry, “municipal emancipation” had different consequences, dependent on the various local regulations. This multiplicity of situations has to be taken into account in order to carefully distinguish innovations and regressions in Tuscan attitudes towards the Jewish question. The most contradictory example that has been investigated by scholars is that of Leghorn. In this international port town, where Jews had acquired a special standing thanks to their commercial prominence, the reformed municipality decided in 1780 to exclude non-Catholics from any available office. Local authorities regarded Jewish eligibility as a serious threat to Christian dominance. Finally, an exception was made, and a delegate of the Jewish Nation was accepted at the assemblies of the Magistrato, but the traditional separation was preserved as well as the concept of the Jewish community as a foreign body within the State.24 23 Chiavistelli, “Il Comune di Pietro Leopoldo,” p. 183. 24 See C. Mangio, “La riforma municipale a Livorno,” L’Ordine di Santo Stefano, pp. 85–119; F. Bregoli, “ ‘Two Jews Walk into a Coffeehouse’: The ‘Jewish Question’, Utility, and Political Participation in Late Eighteenth-Century Livorno,” Jewish History 24 (2010), pp. 309–329; id., “The Port of Livorno and its Nazione Ebrea in the Eighteenth Century: Economic Utility and Political Reforms,” Quest: Cities of the Jews and Modernity, forthcoming. I would like to thank Francesca Bregoli for sharing this paper with me before its publication. For a comparative approach, see L.C. Dubin, “Subjects into Citizens. Jewish Autonomy and Inclusion in Early Modern Livorno and Trieste,” Simon Dubnow Institute

towards jewish emancipation in the grand-duchy of tuscany 115 Another complicated case is that of the nobiliary town of Siena and its late 1786 regulations. In principle, Jewish owners were to be admitted here in a third-class electoral bag created for the annual drawing for the councillors, while a first-class bag was reserved for the traditional noble leadership and a second-class bag comprised the names of the major realestate owners. But, as stated by Francesca Piselli, the authorities in Siena manifested a general hostility to municipal reform and, as a result, Jewish eligibility was not implemented.25 As regards the system adopted for the district of Florence, a controversial 1774 resolution forced Jews to decline any municipal position in case their names were drawn. In response, a 1778 decree reaffirmed Jewish real-estate owners as qualified for office in the General Councils of the communities belonging to the districts of Florence and Pisa. If drawn for higher offices, they had to be replaced by qualified Catholics. To date, no evidence has been found of Jewish participation in the Florentine administrations, but there is a reference to Jews being elected to offices in the small town of Monte San Savino.26 Pitigliano adopted a modality similar to that of Florence.27 In 1783, at the final stages of the reform, Pitigliano received its general and particular regulations, according to which eligible Jews could apply only to the General Council.28 But here, the situation had a remarkable distinction: Yearbook 5 (2006), pp. 51–81. About the Jewish community of Leghorn, see also J.-P. Filippini, “La nazione ebrea di Livorno,” in Storia d’Italia. Annali 11. Gli ebrei in Italia, II, C. Vivanti (ed.) (Turin 1997), pp. 1047–1066. 25 See F. Piselli, “Giansenisti,” ebrei e “giacobini” a Siena. Dall’Accademia ecclesiastica all’Impero napoleonico (1780–1814) (Florence 2007), pp. 96–101; and the entry “Comunità di Siena,” in Comune di Siena—Archivio Comunale, http://www.comune.siena.it/main .asp?id=3190 [consulted on 17 December 2009]. About the Jewish community in Siena, see N. Pavoncello, “Origini e sviluppo della comunità ebraica a Siena,” Nova Historia VII (1955), fasc. V–VI, pp. 31–44. 26 See Verga, “Proprietà e cittadinanza,” pp. 1056–57; Chiavistelli, “Il Comune di Pietro Leopoldo,” pp. 181–206. About the Jewish communities of Florence, Pisa and Monte San Savino in the late 18th century, see Salvadori, The Jews of Florence, pp. 51–54; M. Luzzati, Ebrei ed ebraismo a Pisa (Pisa 2005), pp. 45–52; R. Salvadori, “Quattro secoli di storia ebraica a Monte San Savino,” Gli ebrei a Monte San Savino (Monte San Savino 1994), pp. 11–50. 27 Pitigliano was situated in a geographical enclave bordering the Papal States, north of the abandoned marshlands of the Maremma of Grosseto. For a detailed description of this area, see L. Rombai, Le contee granducali di Pitigliano e Sorano intorno al 1780. Cartografia storica e unitaria di un territorio (Florence 1982). 28 The general regulation for the Lower Province of Siena was published in the Motuproprio of 17 March 1783, see Bandi e ordini da osservarsi nel Granducato di Toscana pubblicati dal dì 8 gennaio 1789 al 2 aprile 1791 raccolti per ordine successivo di tempi con il sommario dei medesimi (Florence­ 1791), XI, 130. For the particular regulation of Pitigliano, see ibid., 142.

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according to a local tradition of economic privileges, Pitigliano Jews had been enjoying unlimited property rights since the 16th century, and thus had already entered local strategic property networks.29 This factor was particularly apparent on the occasion of the electoral draws: as a matter of fact, during the 1780s and 1790s, the names of Jewish owners happened to be drawn from the bags many times and indeed, they held office in the General Council of Pitigliano with noteworthy frequency.30 .

The Jewish Community of Pitigliano in the “Age of Reforms” From 1765 onward, the underdeveloped Lower Province of Siena had been benefiting from certain conditions, such as full freedom in the grain trade. Additional exemptions and liberalisations had been introduced in 1778 to boost local agricultural enterprises and attract foreign farmers and rural inhabitants.31 In contrast with other places, between 1781 and 1783, the large-scale sales of national property had produced a partitioning of lands and buildings, bringing particular advantage to the multiplicity of local small owners, among whom were many Jews.32 Concurrently with the economic revival of the 1770s and the process of municipal reform in the 1780s, Pitigliano registered a significant demographic increase, after a long period of depopulation. As pointed out by Danilo Barsanti and Leonardo Rombai, “also in Pitigliano and Sorano, in the short period following Leopold’s pro-bourgeois liberalistic policy, all demographic and productivity indicators registered a remarkable

29 In Pitigliano throughout the centuries, special privilegi—such as tax exemptions, freedom of property and transactions—were extended to Christian and Jewish residents in order to revitalise this backward area. According to Roberto Salvadori, the right of property granted to Jews endured through the 16th century, even when Pitigliano lost its autonomy as a county and became part of the Grand-Duchy under the rule of the Medici. It was still in place after the ghetto was established in 1622, during the period of fiercest anti-Jewish oppression; see Salvadori, La comunità ebraica di Pitigliano, pp. 17–19. 30 See Archivio Comunale di Pitigliano (ACP), Registro dei Sig.ri Gonfalonieri, Priori e Consiglieri che hanno riseduto nella Comunità di Pitigliano in forza del regolamento del 1783, e degli altri impiegati. I would like to thank Elisabetta Peri from the Pitigliano municipality for her helpfulness. 31  D. Marrara, Storia istituzionale della Maremma senese. Principi e istituti del governo dall’età carolingia all’Unificazione d’Italia (Siena 1961), pp. 202–222. 32 Barsanti-Rombai, “Dal controllo feudale,” pp. 34–37.

towards jewish emancipation in the grand-duchy of tuscany 117 increase.”33 This positive juncture also affected the local Jewish community, whose population reached 222 individuals (about 10 percent of the general population) in the mid-1780s. After the absorption of the communities of Sorano and Santa Fiora, and additional influxes of immigrants from the Papal State, Pitigliano’s importance as a Jewish centre, in the wider area between the Grand-Duchy and the Papal State, became even more pronounced.34 This expanding Jewish presence in Pitigliano must have produced some violent reactions among the Christian population, since we find references to attacks on local Jews. Nevertheless, the large number of Jewish claims sent to state authorities in Florence during this period reflects a clear determination to defend the Jews’ newly acquired position. In 1774, the massari (administrators) of the Jewish community of Pitigliano made an official complaint and asked for a firm resolution of the frequent mistreatment that Jews suffered at the hands of the Christian populace. The positive answer from the central government recalled the rules in force, according to which Jews had to be granted protection from any violence and considered equal to all Tuscan subjects: “Dovendo la Nazione Ebrea godere di quella tranquillità e quiete della quale godono gli altri sudditi, [. . .] senza il minimo riguardo al professar l’individui medesimi, utili come gli altri al commercio, una religione diversa dalla nostra.”35 Furthermore, in 1783, on the eve of municipal reform, the Jewish community asked the Grand Duke to abrogate three ancient taxes imposed on their “nation” that Christians usually did not pay: “Supplicando volere ordinare che, abolite le tasse dette di famigli, del mantenimento della fonte e del predicatore dal primo luglio in poi, siano considerati come i cristiani o nel modo che dispone il Regolamento generale ed il particolare per la comunità di Pitigliano.”36 Peter Leopold gave his concession in the

33 Ibid., p. 26 [my translation]. After his visit in 1787, Peter Leopold left with a vivid description of the developments in Pitigliano; see Pietro Leopoldo D’Asburgo Lorena, Relazioni sul governo della Toscana, A. Salvestrini (ed.), III (Florence 1974), pp. 562–568. 34 See M. Livi-Bacci, “Una comunità israelitica in un ambiente rurale,” passim. 35 See Central Archives of the History of the Jewish People (CAHJP), Pitigliano—Copia di lettere, ordini, regolamenti, Grand-Duke’s concession (22 April 1774). A similar statement is found in a 1784 writing by Francesco Maria Gianni, one of the most influential figures in Peter Leopold’s bureaucracy, as quoted by Verga, “Proprietà e cittadinanza,” p. 1050. Many thanks to Dr. Renato Spiegel of the Central Archives for the History of the Jewish People at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. 36 See CAHJP, Pitigliano—Copia di lettere, ordini, regolamenti, plea of Raffaelle Servi and Abram Camerino.

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same year, reaffirming the equality of his Jewish and Christian subjects in terms of rights and duties.37 Jewish Internal Debates in Pitigliano The Jewish community also had to cope with a great deal of internal divisions—a significant number concerning economic issues. The harshest conflict stemmed from a request to remove an ancient form of internal taxation—the testatico, i.e., the poll tax that the Kahal (the Jewish governing body) levied on each family head. Objectors depicted this traditional levy as an antiquated relic of an oligarchic past that had to be rejected. The case had a precedent in 1745, when a claim against rich contributors in the community was brought by a group of poor persons, who requested an exemption: one of the protagonists, Isach Consiglio, managed to obtain the admission to the Jewish council of two delegates representing the poor.38 Thirty years later, in the 1770s, the old question of the testatico was troubling the community members again on the occasion of the renewal of Jewish internal regulations. Divisions between poor and rich were revived— the former asking for exemptions, the latter calling for the preservation of the ancient system established by the founders of the community—to such an extent that no agreement could be reached between the factions. The rise in the prices of commodities, following liberalisation, probably widened the social gap between Jews of the higher strata and their underprivileged brethren. The financial difficulties of the Kahal must have caused a further increase in internal fees and subsequent protests.39 The civic authorities of Pitigliano had to intervene: in 1778, the Jewish community was given a new regulation that, while conforming to the contemporary enlightened policies, still expressed a strong conservative attitude. Jewish jurisdictional autonomy was confirmed, as well as the community’s traditional forms of self-government and internal taxation. Accordingly, the testatico remained in force.40

37 Ibid., letter of Anfano Perpignani to the Vicario Regio of Pitigliano confirming the Grand-Ducal rescritto (17 July 1783). 38 Ibid., petition of the poor (1745) and Isach Consiglio’s proposition (1746). 39 Ibid., Grand-Duke’s concession of new regulations (3 December 1778). 40 Ibid.

towards jewish emancipation in the grand-duchy of tuscany 119 Once more, in 1787, a complaint raised by a group of protesters rejected the imposition of additional fees. But this time, the dissent also aimed at condemning the alleged misconduct of Rabbi Lazzaro Levi, and explicitly mentioned defaults in payments. Even more significantly, the complaint again included a request for the direct involvement of the civic authorities of Pitigliano, disregarding Jewish community leaders. Among its signatories is David Consiglio, the son of Isach.41 David Consiglio The figure of David Consiglio is extremely relevant to the case in hand, as his life history is connected to important changes in both Jewish and Christian societies. The intertwining of his personal experience with the wider developments of his times enables us to obtain insights into the problems related to this phase of Jewish emancipation. David Arieh ben Yitzhaq Consiglio was born into a family of low social status.42 He married Ester Cetona of Santa Fiora, who had recently arrived in Pitigliano with her family, and they had two children—Giuseppe and Affortunata.43 Like most poor Jewish residents, the family lived close to the synagogue building in the former ghetto where, from the second half of the 18th century on, some poor Christian families also had their domicile. Jewish traders from the higher social strata lived and worked in the main commercial street.44 No evidence about Consiglio’s main employment has been found in the sources. Apparently, in the late 1780s, he enjoyed a small improvement in 41 See ACP, Carteggio dal 1767 al 1800, Camerino’s petition (12 December 1787). With regard to conflicts between members of the Jewish communities, see also the study by P. Bernardini, “Qahal come universitas: l’evolversi e le forme del consenso e del dissenso individuale verso la struttura comunitaria ebraica nell’Italia Settentrionale tra Cinque e Settecento,” in Corpi, fraternità, mestieri nella storia della società europea, C. Mozzarelli and D. Zanardi (eds.) (Rome 1998), pp. 325–339. 42 In a 1777 marriage contract, “David Aryeh ben Yitzhaq Consilio” appears as best man; see Jewish Theological Seminary, Ketubbah, Pitigliano, 1777. 5537 Nisan 14 [1777 April 21], General Collection, Rare Book Room, Drawer 49. On the social status of the Consiglios, see CAHJP, Pitigliano—Copia di lettere, ordini, regolamenti, Isach Consiglio’s proposition (1746). 43 Giuseppe was born on 15 July 1785 and Affortunata on 10 May 1791. My gratitude to Franco Paioletti for this information, gathered from the local newspaper L’Ombrone (31 May 1885). 44 The Consiglio family house was located inside the poor quarter of the ghetto, see ACP, Affari Comunitativi, 1799 (21 January 1799).

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his status as he obtained the rabbinical licence for ritual slaughter and started serving as a sciattino (Judeo-Italian for shohet). A letter he received in 1787 from the rabbi of Monte San Savino, Moisè Israel Urbini, also unveils his plans to convince the rabbi to move to Pitigliano and replace the controversial Lazzaro Levi as the community’s religious leader. It is likely that during these years, Consiglio might have served as a massaro (administrator) in the Kahal, but he could have also been engaged in a personal feud with community leaders.45 In fact, the sources available reveal a complex figure, whose attachment to his cultural-religious world seems to coexist alongside a critical attitude towards the community leadership. His social commitment led him to side with the underprivileged of the community, and his participation in the debates of the time often led him into conflict with other members. Furthermore, Christian and Jewish sources allow us to reconstruct some significant events between the 1780s and the 1790s, corresponding with particular stages of David Consiglio’s life. If, on the one hand, his involvement in many of the Jewish internal debates bears evidence of his deep commitment to the Jewish community, on the other hand, two poles of his life history are marked by events that placed him in a different space, outside the ghetto. Consiglio’s Election to the General Council Let us consider Consiglio’s election to the General Council of Pitigliano in 1783, the same year as the local municipal reform.46 What is striking here from a Jewish point of view is the immediate outcome of the newly introduced system: David Consiglio, a Jewish resident, a local employee and a small property owner (as a family householder), is included in the second electoral bag, from which his name is drawn and then his nomination is confirmed. No traces of opposition to his election are recorded in the sources. He becomes a municipal councillor, receives his pay, and participates in the most important decisions taken by the municipal assembly. This was a period of revolutionary change in the local administration and he was part of it. 45 See Archivio Dell’Università Israelitica di Pitigliano (AUIP), VII, 1, fasc. 3, letter of Moisè Israel Urbini to David Consiglio (Monte San Savino, 16 December 1787). I wish to thank Dr Gysèle Lévy from the Centro Bibliografico UCEI in Rome. 46 See ACP, Registro dei Sig.ri Gonfalonieri, Priori e Consiglieri, election in the year 1783.

towards jewish emancipation in the grand-duchy of tuscany 121 In the late 18th century, there was a Jewish councillor on the General Council of Pitigliano almost every year—and not a single case of Jewish refusal is registered.47 However, Jewish eligibility remained confined to the lowest offices and was never extended to higher ones: the GrandDuke’s motuproprio of 1789 definitively restricted Jewish qualification to the General Council in the entire Grand-Duchy. Leghorn was again the exception: here the discriminatory regulation of 1780 remained in place.48 Jewish ineligibility was extended to all major public functions: some Jewish owners from the wealthier classes, when drawn for high office, were regularly replaced by Catholics.49 Jewish women were also included in the electoral bags but, like all other females, were declared “unsuitable” for office: if drawn, they were obliged to pass the charge to their husbands or to another male substitute.50 And other kinds of problems arose in elections of professional municipal employees, for which the votes of the general municipal assembly were required. For example, in the selection of the camerlengo (the bursar), Jewish candidates found no support from municipal voters. The mere possibility of having a Jew in charge of municipal monies aroused a general opposition from the assembly.51 Nevertheless, we can still uphold Marcello Verga’s assumption52 that in Pitigliano too, the linkage between municipal reform and Jewish ownership produced a significant rupture with the traditional perception that 47 Jewish councillors in Pitigliano between 1783 and 1804 included David Consiglio in 1783; Angelo Febo in 1786; Raffael Vita Servi in 1788; Pacifico Sadun and Daniel Sadun in 1789; Giuseppe Servi in 1790; Lazzaro Sadun in 1792; Pacifico Sadun in 1799; Raffael Servi and Moisè Sorano in 1800; Abram Bemporad in 1801; David Paggi and Angiolo Spizzichino in 1802; Emanuele Paggi in 1804. See ACP, Registro dei Sig.ri Gonfalonieri, Priori e Consiglieri, passim. 48 For the Motuproprio of 20 April 1789, see Bandi e ordini, XXX. 49 Jews drawn by lot for higher offices and replaced included Isach Servi in 1788 and in 1791 for the office of Priore, replaced by Giuseppe Marrani; Abram Bemporad in 1796 for the office of Gonfaloniere, replaced by Giuseppe Marrani; the inheritors of the late Raffael Servi in 1797 for the office of Gonfaloniere, replaced by Giuseppe Capata; the inheritors of Castelnuovo in 1801 for the office of Priore, replaced by don Bernardino Fabbriziani; Angelo Ajò in 1803 for the office of Priore, replaced by Francesco Ciacci. See ACP, Registro dei Sig.ri Gonfalonieri, Priori e Consiglieri, passim. 50 Jewish women drawn by lot and later replaced included Prudenza Paggi in 1790 for the office of councillor, replaced by Giuseppe Servi; Rosa Ajò in 1799 for the office of councillor, replaced by Domenico Vannini; Prudenza Paggi in 1801 for the office of councillor, replaced by Abram Bemporad; Perna Consorzio in 1802 for the office of councillor, replaced by her husband David Paggi. See ACP, Registro dei Sig.ri Gonfalonieri, Priori e Consiglieri, passim. 51 See ACP, Deliberazioni del Consiglio (1799–1802), year 1802, 3a; id., Deliberazioni del Consiglio (1802–1805), year 1804, 7a. 52 See Verga, “Proprietà e cittadinanza,” p. 1067.

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viewed Jews as a separate group without any involvement in civic and political spheres. David Consiglio’s Excommunication The second major event in David Consiglio’s life that has particular significance occurred ten years after his election to the General Council of Pitigliano. In 1793, following a series of unheeded warnings, the local rabbinical court imposed a ban of excommunication on David Consiglio because of his repeated transgressions of the rules of ritual slaughter, and also because of his public defamation of Rabbi Moisè Israel Urbini (newly arrived from Monte San Savino). David Consiglio was declared an avaryan, a transgressor of Jewish Law, and excluded from the minyan and the aliyah la-Torah. He lost his licence as a shohet u-vodek and was dismissed from the office of communal ritual slaughterer.53 One can find Consiglio in records from a year later employed as a glass worker, trying to survive economically. There is no doubt that his excommunication by the Jewish community caused him many problems. No information is available concerning the length of his ban. David Consiglio died the following year, and in 1795, his family, having been left in abject poverty, was forced to request financial aid from the municipality.54 This episode in the life of David Consiglio offers an opportunity to examine some of the major issues that the Kahal of Pitigliano had to face. In the early 1790s, there is evidence of a tightening of internal control as well as a strengthening of rabbinical power. The relative judicial autonomy still enjoyed by the Jewish community was used on this occasion to deal with disobedience towards the authorities, divisions, defaults on payments, and above all, the decline in religious observance.55 Rabbi Moisè Israel Urbini explained his worries in a letter to the parnasim:

53 See AUIP, VII, 1, fasc. 3, warnings to the shohet David Consiglio (1792); and ibid., VIII, 3, fasc. 16, declaration of avaryan to David Consiglio (1793). 54 See ibid., payment to the glass worker David Consiglio (1794), and ACP, Deliberazioni del Consiglio 1794–1798, 26r, concession of financial aid to the sons of the late David Consiglio (14 July 1795). 55 See, for instance, AUIP, VII and VIII, passim, including debates on torat ha-arakhah (taxation system), pragmaticas against parties and dancing, and other rabbinical decrees concerning religious conduct to be observed during prayers, marriages and festivals.

towards jewish emancipation in the grand-duchy of tuscany 123 Quello che purtroppo mi fa piangere a vive lacrime si è il vedere le grandi dissenzioni e giurato odio che trovisi fra i singoli di quel Caal, e che l’uno accusa l’altro e l’altro l’uno d’essere delinquenti, sia nel sciatare che nel badcare, cosa tanto scrupolosa, Dio guardi di mangiare nevelod utrefod, di qual delito non solo ne vengono attrocemente puniti i delinquenti, ma anche tolga Dio tutto il Caal per che devono trovarli un compenso . . . .56

The new rabbi of Pitigliano aimed at a religious reformation of the community: his rulings introduced more severe modalities in the observance of the daily gatherings, “with the purpose of uprooting each one’s licence to begin the morning prayer at his liking.”57 Transgressors were to be included in a list of sussurranti (rebellious, insubordinate men) that would be passed on to the police authorities. Since internal taxation was “denigrated and almost evaded,” a new regulation had to be imposed for the levying of taxes in order to cover expenses for religious rituals. The rabbi issued further bans on Jewish attendance at public taverns, drinking wine and playing cards in public. On the other hand, recitations of seliḥot and additional rites of atonement were promoted.58 This significant reaction, motivated specifically by a growing laxity in religious observance, clearly reveals the tensions between tradition and emancipation in the changing landscape of the late 18th century. It is likely that David Consiglio’s excommunication was one consequence of the reaction of Pitigliano’s rabbi to emancipation. In fact, the process of religious reformation aimed not only at arresting the decline of traditional customs and the rise of religious transgression, but also at preventing internal divisions and conflicts. Surprisingly, the latter derived from nontraditional positions expressed by a group of Jews from the lower social strata, who fought for an internal reformation as they yearned for their own social emancipation. Conclusions In general, during the age of Tuscan reforms, Jewish civic rights saw a remarkable improvement, but still, they remained subject to limitations. In the eyes of traditional society, discrimination was an essential element 56 Ibid., VII, 1, fasc. 3, letter of Rabbi Urbini (Monte San Savino, 17 May 1793). 57 Ibid., notification of Rabbi Urbini (8 January 1794) [my translation]. 58 Ibid., VII and VIII, passim.

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in the perpetuation of a distinction between Catholics and non-Catholics. By advancing a “soft revolution,” Tuscan reformism failed to achieve full equality between Christian and Jewish individuals, and in the public sphere, being a member of the Jewish community still carried a negative connotation. However, as shown in the case of Pitigliano, the frequent participation of Jews in public administration produced a significant rupture in traditional concepts of citizenship and local power. Compared to Leghorn, Siena, and Florence, the situation of the Jews of Pitigliano, supported by the enlightened bureaucracy of Peter Leopold, seems to stand out and provide evidence of a general process of improvement in the sphere of civic rights. If we connect it to the brief reference to elected Jews in Monte San Savino, the example of Pitigliano may confirm Marcello Verga’s assumption59 that in peripheral centres, Jewish election did not meet the same tangible opposition as it did in the more urban contexts. Initially, the process of civic recognition strongly influenced Jewish viewpoints about the outside world and intensified debates within the Jewish community. This gave rise to a longing for social emancipation, but also to concerns about disaggregation and cultural decline. As seen through the figure of David Consiglio, in Pitigliano, the first manifestations of social and civic recognition for Jews were countered by a traditionalist revival during the 1790s. To recover its social and spiritual unity, the Jewish community tightened internal control and imposed a religious reorganisation. Internal struggles between different social strata of Jewish society also shed light on unexpected calls for change in Jewish self-government. In particular, Jewish opposition to the system of internal taxation seems to reveal an interesting concomitance with some of the contemporary disputes in Christian society regarding taxation and finance. Finally, a significant reference to David Consiglio’s children must be added. Giuseppe and Affortunata left Pitigliano while still young found a better life in Florence and Leghorn. In the early 1850s, Affortunata Consiglio endowed her native Jewish community in Pitigliano with a significant part of her brother’s patrimony, which she had inherited (Giuseppe had become an esteemed antiquarian!). The donation was used to establish a

59 See Verga, “Proprietà e cittadinanza,” p. 1059.

towards jewish emancipation in the grand-duchy of tuscany 125 Jewish schoolhouse in Pitigliano in 1854 for the education of the poor; it was named “Pio Istituto Consiglio.”60 Besides manifesting the continual process of socio-economic emancipation in which Tuscan Jews were involved between the 18th and 19th centuries, these latter developments offer eloquent proof of the attachment that the Consiglio family continued to show toward their humble origins and their lasting sense of belonging to Jewish Pitigliano.

60 On the Institute, see for instance Salvadori, La comunità ebraica di Pitigliano, pp. 92–97.

The Material Context of 15th-Century Hebrew Florentine Manuscripts: A Source of Information on Production, Ownership and Control of Hebrew Books in Their Christian Environment Nurit Pasternak Hebrew manuscripts, often the sole sources documenting the circumstances of medieval Jewish life, are the principal bearers of evidence to the cultural, social, and economic facets of Jewish existence in Europe during the Middle Ages and the Renaissance and—most importantly— to Hebrew book production, consumption and usage. The period that historians commonly set as the beginning of Jewish historiography is the early 16th century;1 indeed, the absence of chronicles, communal registers (containing, for instance, registered births and deaths among the Jewish population), and personal diaries, together with a scarcity of written correspondence between individuals and other internal sources relevant for the research of Jewish life, render our insights into that period highly speculative. These insights rely on documents of all kinds preserved in local archives2 and on pieces of scattered information, hints and clues contained in the body of Hebrew manuscripts. It is they that guide our interpretation as to the sociological, economic, and socio-cultural circumstances of the Jews, as well as their ties and reactions vis-à-vis their neighbours and hosts prior to the early modern era. This said, the information contained in the material text of Hebrew manuscripts relates to many facets of Jewish life as well as to external

1 As for instance in Y.H. Yerusahlmi, “Clio and the Jews: Reflections on Jewish Historiography in the Sixteenth Century,” in Essential Papers on Jewish Culture in Renaissance and Baroque Italy,” D. Ruderman (ed.) (New York-London 1992), pp. 191–228. 2 The Florence state-archive (ASFi) preserves documentation that concerns the Jews and their relation with the authorities. These include, among others, the condotte (permits to exercise their businesses) granted to Jewish moneylenders with all their conditions and stipulations; the catasto registers for Florence and the Florentine territories, with basic information on Jews residing outside Florence; the registers of “the Eight” (Otto di guardia e balia) who were in charge of Jewish affairs in Florence; and notaries’ files containing documentation on Jews and their legal affairs.

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events witnessed by scribes and owners;3 moreover, it is of prime importance for research into the history of the book, manuscript production and its individual nature in Jewish society, scribal practices and self-copying, the social status of scribes as well as the tastes and demands of patrons and book-users, their reading repertories, and the formation of their manuscript collections. No doubt the material text of Hebrew manuscripts is an eloquent source per se.4 The clues given by extra-textual inscriptions, such as colophons, bills of sale, ownership notes (ex-libris), booklists, and so forth, in addition to an examination of scribal practices and production characteristics on the one hand, and the uses of the book by its consumers on the other, allow us to delineate certain affinities to the neighbouring (Latin) book scene. Moreover, we should be able to gauge through them the extent to which the two book cultures, Jewish and Christian, converged or diverged at a specific place and moment in time: whether they ran on parallel tracks or experienced mutual encounters, to what extent any contacts between the two book environments could reflect areas of common interest or a possible blurring of demarcation lines between the two and the adoption of local ways by the Jewish community, to what extent they may disclose whether there was a measure of acculturation or assimilation on the part of the Jews; or—vice versa—whether they can be conceived as indications of a walling-in of a community seeking to retain marks of its own identity and uniqueness, both materially and otherwise. Three manuscript corpora shed light on the Florentine Hebrew book scene from the settlement of Jewish moneylenders in the town (1437)5 until the early reign of Lorenzo de’ Medici (namely, the 1470s). As historical sources, these manuscripts provide precious information on their makers and owners, the environment in which they were created, and the society that produced and consumed them. The facts and insights retrieved from them are particularly significant as these “book witnesses” were present at the very epicentre of book production during its most hectic period, when, prior to the advent of printing, Florence hosted and nurtured the most dynamic book scene in Renaissance Europe.

3 It includes, among others, records of witnessed events (both historical and personal), private circumstances and hardship (exile, imprisonment, the plague, earthquakes, wars, etc.), deaths and births, booklists, etc. 4 By “material text,” we normally mean the information conveyed through that part of the book text that is not the written text intended for the reader. 5 U. Cassuto, Gli ebrei a Firenze nell’età del Rinascimento (Florence 1918), pp. 32–33.



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Accordingly, these corpora offer a context in which to examine many features of the Latin and Hebrew book environments in Florence, including various material aspects of the scene of production, such as the commissioning of manuscripts, hired scribes alongside self-copyists, commercial versus individual production, and clients and readers—their tastes and preferences, social affiliations, and manuscript collections. They also shed light on issues concerning the scribal craft itself in both environments, including the degree to which Hebrew book production appropriated “foreign” customs and was transformed by them; the extent to which they functioned as an autonomous unit clinging to their own tradition; and the attitude of Christians towards Hebrew books and vice versa. Finally, extant data can be used to determine the composition of book collections owned by Christians and Jews in Florence—specifically the presence or non-presence of Hebrew books in Christian libraries and the extent to which Latin manuscripts were used by Jews. The three corpora of Hebrew manuscripts, copied in Florence or owned by Florentines (Christians and Jews) during the period under discussion include 27 manuscripts copied from 1441 to circa 1470 by the scribe Yitzhaq ben Ovadia; a dozen Hebrew manuscripts purchased or commissioned and owned by the Florentine Hebraist Giannozzo Manetti from the early 1440s until his death in 1459; and 17 Hebrew manuscripts owned by Florentine Jews, which underwent expurgation in Florence in 1472 by order of the signoria.6 The first corpus, consisting of the only Hebrew manuscripts identified as having been produced in Florence during our period, should be an indicator of the extent to which Hebrew manuscripts produced there were part of the local book environment. This could be achieved by detecting their affinities to Latin practices and customs, and instances that might point to mutual exchanges or to junctures where the distinct, parallel tracks of the two book cultures did merge. Furthermore, if such a convergence were found, then one should investigate to what extent it would express the degree of the Jews’ integration and acceptance in the Christian environment: Would some blurring of the characteristics inherent to Jewish booklore, as well as a growing resemblance to Latin book production, indicate a degree of acculturation on the part of the Jews or even a sign of assimilation? And if so, would this reflect the circumstances of Jewish society as a whole, or would it concern only specific individuals among the Jewish patrons and scribes? 6 See N. Pasternak, Together and Apart—Hebrew Manuscripts as Testimonies to Encounters of Jews and Christians in Fifteenth-Century Florence: The Makings, the Clients, Censorship, thesis submitted to the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, May 2009 [Hebrew]. See dissertation website: http://shemer.mslib.huji.ac.il/dissertations/W/JMS/001494402.pdf.

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Over the past decades, some scholars have claimed that the fashion of producing “beautiful” Hebrew manuscripts in Florence (in the spirit of the Florentine bel libro) indicates a degree of “collaboration” (in the sense of working together) and rapprochement between the two societies. Others argue that external examples of everyday, shared tastes and fashions cannot be considered as evidence of fusion, inasmuch as casual encounters, which are natural between a minority culture and the larger community, do not imply the acculturation of that minority and its integration into the host society.7 Another type of book-related encounter that may be significant here is the extent to which members of the two societies read one another’s literature. Inventories of the Latin libraries owned by humanists or high-ranking Florentine bibliophiles such as the Medici attest to their reading preferences ( just as much as booklists inscribed by Jewish manuscript owners in the first or last folios of their books, enumerating the contents of their collections, are apt to disclose the extent to which they had been acquainted with the “others” and their literature). This aspect of Jewish-Christian encounter is best illustrated by the second corpus, i.e., Hebrew manuscripts owned by Florentine Christians.

The third corpus, comprising Hebrew manuscripts that underwent censorship, seems to be a powerful illustration of the fact that not much had changed throughout the centuries, and that Hebrew books, especially Jewish liturgy and the Talmud, were still being banned for their alleged blasphemous contents. At the same time, this corpus points to the fact that the Jews had not removed from their books the offending passages, and thus kept the old feud alive. The expurgation of this corpus is an encounter of the negative kind, to say the least.8 An overall glance at the two scenes of manuscript production, Latin and Hebrew, does reveal some basic differences. As opposed to the Latin book scene in Florence, which underwent a dramatic transformation from the scholastic to the humanistic at the turn of the 15th century, Hebrew manuscripts experienced no such permutation in their form, content, channels of commissioning and distribution, or scope of production. In Tuscany, their numbers remained marginal compared to Hebrew book production in other regions of Italy, and even more so when compared to Latin production in Florence. From the settling of Jewish bankers until 7 See the contributions of U. Cassuto, C. Roth, R. Bonfil, M. Luzzatti and others on these issues, as well as Pasternak, ibid., pp. 34–40. 8 Pasternak, ibid., Ch. 7.



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the 1470s, only one Hebrew scribe, Yitzhaq ben Ovadia, is known to have been active in Florence (accordingly, his is the manuscript corpus referred to for evaluating affinities to the local Latin book craft and the adoption of “foreign” techniques). Notwithstanding the non-participation of Jews in the overall frenzied dynamics of production in the Latin book scene, we do have some evidence of their use of local facilities, possibly acquiring the odd material from a cartolaio or using the services of Christian bookbinders.9 On their contacts with Christian artists one can only speculate, since there are no available details about the distribution of work in this regard, and it could well be that hired scribes would provide their clients with a comprehensive codex, including its decoration in a local bottega. A feature common to both the Latin and Hebrew book scenes was the shortage of manuscripts. One could acquire a second-hand codex, commission the copying of a new one, or obtain an exemplar and copy it individually. This had forever been the practice among Jewish book users, and self-production of Hebrew manuscripts is known to have reached over 50 percent of total production.10 Yet, among Latin readers, self-copying is first witnessed in significant numbers only in the period we are dealing with, in humanist circles, most prominently among Florentine scholars. As to second-hand books and the commissioning of copying, the individualistic character of the Jewish book environment continued to prevail11 despite scattered indications pointing to the commercialisation of manuscript production.12 While the lively Latin book scene in Florence moved into the hands of middlemen—such as Vespasiano da Bisticci, who provided the entire range of services under one roof 13—it seems that Hebrew 9 U. Cassuto, “I libri di Isach ebreo in Empoli,” La Bibliofilia 12 (1910–11), pp. 247–249. 10 M. Beit-Arié, “Were There Jewish ‘Public’ Libraries in the Middle Ages?: The Individualistic Nature of Hebrew Medieval Book Production and Consumption,” Zion 65 (2000), pp. 441–451 [Hebrew]. 11  M. Beit-Arié, “Publication and Reproduction of Literary Texts in Jewish Medieval Civilization: Jewish Scribality and Its Impact on the Texts Transmitted,” in Transmitting Jewish Traditions: Orality, Textuality, and Cultural Diffusion, Y. Elman and I. Gershoni (eds.) (New Haven-London 2000), pp. 225–247. 12 On uncommissioned production in the Hebrew book environment in Italy and its limited scope, see Pasternak, Together and Apart, pp. 68–71. 13 See A.C. de la Mare, Vespasiano da Bisticci, Historian and Bookseller, unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, Warburg Institute, University of London, 1965/6; and id., “Vespasiano da Bisticci as Producer of Classical Manuscripts,” in Medieval Manuscripts of the Latin Classics: Production and Use, C.A. Chavannes-Mazel and M. Smith (eds.), Proceedings of the Seminar in the History of the Book to 1500: Leiden 1993 (Los Altos Hills-London 1996), pp. 106–207.

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production proceeded at its moderate pace in a fairly self-contained environment where commercial agents were practically non-existent. An important aspect of the commercialised market, emphasising the boom in the Latin book scene, was the uncommissioned production of manuscripts prepared beforehand for the occasional buyer. Bare family coats of arms awaiting decoration indicate the prevalence of this phenomenon. Although there were some cases of Jewish scribes producing manuscripts with the aim of selling them to future, unknown, clients, their numbers were negligible.14 In Florence, on the other hand, and in contrast to the highly individualistic nature of Hebrew manuscript tradition, it seems that Yitzhaq ben Ovadia had indeed been inclined to commercialise his output, copying mostly biblical and liturgical texts and leaving a good number of manuscripts unfinished and uncolophoned.15 As to the circumstances of manuscript illumination and illustration, much has been written about Florentine decorated humanistic manuscripts; with regard to Hebrew manuscripts produced in Tuscany and especially in Florence (most of which bear Yitzhaq’s trademark), some scholars have interpreted their decoration by Christian artists as emblematic of the degree to which Florentine Jews were acculturated and had integrated (or at least tolerated) local practices and tastes.16 Moreover, the Christological motifs these decorations contain17 have been viewed as testimony to the affinity between Christians and Jews.18 One should bear in mind that this assertion concerns manuscripts produced by one scribe, Yitzhaq. We have no documentation enabling us to determine whether his clients ordered the decoration and illumination, or whether he himself had initiated the design owing to his acquaintance with Christian artists or through the intermediary of a cartolaio. If such were the case, this inclination or custom would concern the scribe alone, and should therefore not be conceived as an indicator of general trends throughout Jewish Florentine society. That said, contacts between Jews 14 This according to information retrieved from SfarData, the codicological database of the Hebrew Palaeography Project, sponsored by the Israel Academy of Science and Humanities. 15 For the enumeration and description of the manuscripts copied and produced by Yitzhaq, see Pasternak, ibid., pp. 235–266. 16 See C. Roth’s introduction to V. Antonioli Martelli and L. Mortara Ottolenghi, Manoscritti biblici decorati (Milan, 1966), pp. 35–38. 17 Especially the two decorated Hebrew bibles, MSS Florence, Biblioteca MediceaLaurenziana Plut. I 31 and Conv. soppr. 268, as well as MS Berlin, SPK Hamilton 547. 18 See, for instance, L. Mortara Ottolenghi, “Miniature ebraiche italiane,” Italia Judaica 1 (1983), pp 211–227.



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and Christians no doubt existed in the book environment, as happens among people sharing common interests, infrastructure, and a certain reciprocity; in fact, quite a number of decorated Italian Hebrew manuscripts containing Jewish iconography were executed in Christian workshops in the local fashion.19 In what concerns clients or patrons, namely the readers, one should bear in mind another dissimilarity between the Latin and Hebrew book scenes: while the relatively well-off and educated Jew continued to cultivate his book collection, partly inherited and partly acquired in other ways, using his manuscripts for practical needs just like his ancestors before him, circumstances in the Christian Florentine environment were manifold. The Latin clientele comprised at least two well-defined categories, both products of the humanistic trend and the new attitude towards written texts: the learned scholars, who regarded books as a source of knowledge and investigation, and the princely bibliophiles, whose interest lay mainly in the act of collecting and refining their assets. The affluent city environment and the vogue of ostentatious consumption played a central role in creating this kind of collector.20 Among the bibliophileprinces who patronised Florentine book production, the most prominent were the early Medici,21 followed in the later part of the century by Duke Federico da Montefeltro, owner of a most impressive library in Urbino.22 Some of their manuscripts, displaying a degree of luxury unfound in those produced for humanist scholars, functioned more as “crown jewels” than as reading material. During this period, only a handful of Hebrew manuscripts were present in Florentine collections, among them two decorated biblical manuscripts in the Medicean library,23 and a decorated Bible that found its way to the 19 Pasternak, ibid., pp. 77–79. 20 See, for instance, R.A. Goldwaithe, Wealth and the Demand for Art in Italy 1300–1600 (Baltimore 1993) and L. Jardine, Wordly Goods: A New History of the Renaissance (London 1996), Ch. 4. 21  See F. Ames-Lewis, The Library and Manuscripts of Piero di Cosimo dè Medici (New York-London 1984); A.C. de la Mare, “Cosimo and His Books,” Cosimo il Vecchio de’ Medici, 1389–1464, F. Ames-Lewis (ed.) (Oxford 1992), pp. 115–155. 22 On Federico and his books, see G. Cerboni Baiardi et al. (eds.), Federico di Montefeltro: lo stato, le arti, la cultura, 1–3 (Rome 1986), in particular 3. 23 The sumptuous Bible, MS Florence, Biblioteca Medicea-Laurenziana Plut. I 31 and MS Jerusalem, Israel Museum 155/80 (Psalms, Proverbs, Job) containing fine Florentine miniatures; for their descriptions, see Pasternak, ibid., pp. 257–259 and 254. For the vicissitudes of the Medicean Bible, see N. Pasternak, “A Meeting Point of Hebrew and Latin Manuscript Production: A Fifteenth-Century Florentine Hebrew Scribe, Isaac ben Ovadia of Forlì,” Scrittura e civiltà 25 (2001), pp. 185–200.

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badia fiesolana, on the outskirts of Florence, probably in the 1460s.24 All three, though bearing no colophons, proved to be by Yitzhaq’s hand. In addition, a dozen Hebrew manuscripts had been owned by Manetti, the Hebraist, and served him for his learned ends; his later oeuvre expose the intention behind his Hebrew studies—the quest of the hebraica veritas along with the negation and total disproval of Jewish interpretations of the Bible.25 Contrary to the situation in the Latin book scene, full inventories of Jewish book collections—all privately owned—were extremely rare,26 yet private booklists27 were often inscribed on the first or last leaves of Hebrew manuscripts. None of these lists—which provide a glimpse, albeit limited and partial, into the repertory of Jewish reading or at least Jewish book-ownership—contain texts in the vernacular (Judeo-Italian) or Latin. While some texts in Hebrew translation were indeed used by Jews for their professional needs, no mention of Latin manuscripts was found in their booklists before the 16th century.28 The key conclusion arising from an inspection of both Hebrew and Latin inventories seems to be that neither party29 read the texts used by its counterpart, or—possibly— that their counterpart’s literature was not deemed an integral part of their book collections. In very isolated instances, Hebrew Bibles found in Christian libraries served as collectors’ pieces, not as books. Later on, in Pico’s

24 On conjectures that this had been the Hebrew Bible commissioned by Ludovico Gonzaga of Mantua in the early 1460s, see Pasternak, Together and Apart, pp. 230–232. 25  Regarding the ownership of Hebrew manuscripts by Giannozzo, his sole interest in Hebrew texts, primarily the Bible and its commentaries, had obviously been polemical. For a full list of his Hebrew manuscripts and their descriptions, see Pasternak, ibid., pp. 173–177. What we know of his limited encounters with Jews (among them, the copyists of his Hebrew manuscripts, his teacher Immanuel Salomone of Prato, from whom he purchased his Bible, and finally his Hebrew teacher whom he converted to Christianity) reflects his attitude towards them (cf. ibid., pp. 180–181). 26 We know of only two full inventories of massive collections from Italy: that of the Finzi in Bologna and that of Menahem ben Aharon in Volterra. Christians had drawn up both of them under unfortunate circumstances. For further references on these inventoried collections, see Pasternak, ibid., p. 125. 27 These booklists could have been part of either private or family collections, or manuscripts left as pawns with moneylender, as well as of other groupings of books for various purposes. 28 What seems to have been the first Hebrew book inventory containing Latin items (some 21 medical and scientific books) was drawn up in 1526 in Venice (see Pasternak, ibid., p. 136). 29 Except for Hebraists, for their obvious purposes, and a few Jewish professionals and doctors who must have relied on foreign (including Latin) scientific, legal, and medical texts.



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Florentine circles and as Hebrew studies gained in popularity throughout Europe, this situation would change. In fact, Yitzhaq ben Ovadia’s corpus of Hebrew manuscripts best addresses and illustrates the issues with which we are concerned here: his scribal habits indicate the adoption of several Latin book hand practices uncommon among Hebrew scribes, among them ink-ruling of the pages and, in two instances, both of them found in biblical texts,30 the division of words at the end of lines.31 Moreover, a good number of the manuscripts he copied contain deluxe decoration in the Florentine style. Last but not least, Florentine Christians owned at least three of his biblical manuscripts: one carries on its frontispiece the Medici device, a diamond ring with three coloured feathers and the motto semper.32 Observing his unique workmanship33 and bearing in mind what seem to have been his active ties with the local book-production scene,34 one would be tempted to see him as a bridge between the Hebrew and the Latin book traditions. This said, the contexts most closely linking Yitzhaq to the Christian environment and best illustrating the comparative issue are those that lay beyond the material production of the book; that is, the socio-commercial aspects of his trade that point to the fact that he was an integral part of commercially commissioned book production in Florence. Moreover, the Hebrew Bibles acquired by the Florentine elite had all been copied by Yitzhaq’s hand. In light of these observations, several questions remain to be asked: Was the so-called acculturation that marked his production merely a convenient means of advancing his professional career? Did he initiate new tastes and demands among his actual and potential clients, and new trends later observed among Jewish scribes in Italy?35 Was the lively interest

30 MS London, BL Add. 19944–5 (Mahzor in two volumes, cf. Pasternak, Together and Apart, pp. 235–238) and the Medici Bible, MS Florence, Biblioteca Medicea-Laurenziana Plut. I 31. 31  On the uncommon use of this device among Hebrew scribes and in Hebrew texts, particularly biblical and liturgical, see N. Pasternak, “On Word Division in Judeo-Italian Manuscripts,” Gazette du livre médiéval 29 (Autumn 1996), pp. 37–38. 32 The aforementioned MS Jerusalem, Israel Museum 155/80. 33 Pasternak, Together and Apart, pp. 217–228. 34 On his production of uncommissioned manuscripts, i.e., for occasional buyers, as was common in the commercially oriented Latin book environment in Florence, see ibid., pp. 214–216. 35 Ruling by ink, already adopted by Yitzhaq in his early manuscripts, became a common practice among Jewish scribes in Italy in the course of the 15th century, as shown in the SfarData database.

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of art historians in his decorated manuscripts an indication of his close connections with top Florentine miniatori or of a relationship he established with a well-placed cartolaio? And finally, did his involvement with the local Florentine environment—as attested by his manuscripts—play a role in his presumed eventual conversion to Christianity?36 The third corpus, which comprises 17 manuscripts expurgated in Florence in 1472, contains as material evidence the signatures of Marchion, a high-ranking member of Lorenzo de’ Medici’s administration in charge of the censorship procedure.37 No doubt this interference with Hebrew books stemmed from local circumstances, probably as an indirect outcome of socio-economical, political, and religious pressures. It occurred in parallel to growing hostilities and repercussions against the Jews.38 “Cleansing” the Florentine Jews’ books in 1472 “by order of the Eight” must have been one link in a chain of events, culminating in their final expulsion from Florence in 1496. Although several cases of such cleansing are hinted at in documents from the same period (some of them from the Duchy of Milan),39 Marchion’s markings are the only remnants of interventions in Hebrew books prior to 16th-century Catholic censorship. No doubt they shed a light, not altogether unpredictable, on the predicament of the Jewish minority in Italian cities towards the end of the 15th century, and more particularly on the relations between Christian and Jews in Florence. They could also serve to balance the notions of closeness and blurred borderlines that are sometimes used to define the circumstances of the Jews amidst the Christian population in Florence during the Renaissance.

36 On Yitzhaq’s presumed conversion, see Pasternak, Together and Apart, Ch. 6, in particular pp. 228–232. 37 See also N. Pasternak, “Marchion in Hebrew Manuscripts: State-Censorship in Florence, 1472”, in The Hebrew Book in Early Modern Italy, J.R. Hacker and A. Shear (eds.) (Philadelphia 2011), pp. 26–55. 38 See Cassuto, Gli ebrei, pp. 49–54. 39 See A. Antoniazzi Villa, Un processo contra gli ebrei nella Milano del 1488 (Bologna 1985).

Italy, the “Breadbasket” of Hebrew Manuscripts Benjamin Richler The Institute of Microfilmed Hebrew Manuscripts at the National Library of Israel has been microfilming Hebrew manuscripts for over half a century, and by my estimate they have copies of over 90 percent of the Hebrew manuscripts extant. Based on their records, we can estimate the number of Hebrew manuscripts extant at about 90,000, of which only 25–30,000 are medieval, that is, produced before 1550.1 The reasons for this relative paucity are many: persecutions, inquisitions, expulsions and natural disasters such as fires and earthquakes all contributed to the loss of books. But other factors are also to blame. Hebrew manuscripts were mostly commissioned or copied by individuals for their own use, and were, in fact, used and not kept as showpieces, so they tended to deteriorate over time. In accordance with Jewish tradition, they were deposited in genizot and eventually buried. Furthermore, there were no Jewish libraries that remained active for centuries and survived until the modern era as there were royal, ducal, monastery, and university libraries in Europe where Latin, Greek and Arabic manuscripts were preserved. Any broad survey of Medieval Hebrew manuscripts will reveal that a disproportionately large number of the manuscripts were written in Italy or bear signs of Italian provenance. Umberto Cassuto made note of this in a lecture at a conference of librarians over 80 years ago, but lamented the fact that it was difficult to provide accurate statistics.2 Now that the vast majority of Hebrew manuscripts have been microfilmed and catalogued in electronic form, it is possible to present more precise data.

1  If we were to take into consideration the fragments from codices among the 200,000 leaves in the Cairo Genizah and the thousands of fragments from bindings preserved in European libraries and archives, then the number of medieval manuscripts for which physical evidence exists would probably be double or triple this number. 2 U. Cassuto, “Manoscritti e incunaboli ebraici nelle Biblioteche d’Italia,” Atti del Primo Congresso mondiale delle Biblioteche e di Bibliografia, Roma—Venezia, 15–30 Giugno, 1929, III, p. 2: “Sorprendenti anche in relazione al numero dei manoscritti ebraici provenienti da altri paesi. Credo infatti che si possa asserireche gran parte, se non la maggioranza, dei manoscritti ebraici oggi conservati nelle biblioteche del vasto mondo é di origine italiana0.”

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It is not simple to trace the genealogy of manuscripts without examining each one carefully to study its codicological and palaeographical features. Microfilm or digital copies provide minimal palaeographical information, not always sufficient to determine where the manuscript was produced. There were four main styles of Hebrew script in Europe: Sephardic, Ashkenazic, Italian, and Byzantine (Greek). Manuscripts written in Sephardic script were produced in Spain and Portugal, but also, at times, in the Maghreb and Sicily, and by emigrant scribes in Italy.3 Likewise, manuscripts written in Ashkenazic script may have been produced in the Holy Roman Empire, France, England, or Eastern Europe, or by many of the emigrants from Germany, France, and Austria to northern Italy. Owners’ entries may provide information concerning the past provenances of the book, but the location of the owners can be determined only if a town or region is mentioned. It is much easier to identify manuscripts that were produced in Italy or that had passed through Italy even for a brief period. Manuscripts written in Italian script were almost invariably produced in Italy. There are other signs of Italian provenance as well. In the late 16th and early 17th centuries, owners of Hebrew books were obliged to present their books to censors appointed by the Inquisition. Thus, any manuscript bearing the signature of an Italian censor must have been in Italy during that timeframe. My method of identifying Italian manuscripts was as follows. Using the computerised catalogue at the Institute of Microfilmed Hebrew Manuscripts, I created random samples of medieval manuscripts. For instance, I could create a file of 14th-century manuscripts of philosophical content or 15th-century manuscripts of biblical commentaries, etc. I limited my search to complete manuscripts, or incomplete manuscripts with substantial numbers of leaves, and eliminated fragments, including those from the Cairo Genizah or found in bindings.4

3 In his forthcoming book, Hebrew Codicology: Historical and Comparative Typology of Hebrew Medieval Codices, Based on the Documentation of the Extant Dated Manuscripts in Quantitative Approach, Malachi Beit-Arié shows that over half of the Hebrew manuscripts produced in Italy from the end of the 14th century until the end of the 15th century, representing about two thirds of all the extant dated Hebrew manuscripts produced in Italy up to 1500 and 40 percent of all the extant dated Hebrew manuscripts copied worldwide in that period were written in non-Italian scripts, mainly Sephardic and Ashkenazic. 4 Many of the fragments come from the same codex even if they are scattered in different locations, but until they are all virtually united, they run the risk of being counted several times and thus affecting the statistics.



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From each sample, I separated those manuscripts written in Italian script. Then I separated manuscripts bearing signatures of Italian censors, even if the manuscripts were produced outside of Italy, and added them to the list of “Italian” manuscripts. I then checked each of the remaining entries manually and added to the list those manuscripts that either were deposited in Italian libraries, or bore evidence that they had been produced in Italy or had belonged to owners there, by virtue of their Italian names or places of residence or by the typical Italian script in which they were written. The results of these searches were quite consistent. In almost all the samples, about 50 percent of the manuscripts had been in Italy at one time.5 In fact, the number of what I call “Italian” manuscripts is probably slightly higher. The fact that a manuscript bears no evidence of Italian provenance does not eliminate the possibility that it did belong to an Italian owner or was even copied there, for not all manuscripts bear owners’ inscriptions and in many cases where the owners did sign their names, they did so on the first or last leaves of the codex, precisely those leaves that are most likely to fall off and be lost when the binding loosens. It is inconceivable that half the manuscripts extant bear some evidence of Italian provenance and that not a single one of the remaining half were ever in Italy. In all probability, a small percentage were in fact in Italy and so we can add to the 50 percent in our findings at least another percentage or two, and thus come to the conclusion that well over half the extant medieval Hebrew manuscripts bore Italian provenance at one time. We, or at least the general public who are not erudite in the history of Italian Jewry, tend to think that the Jewish population of modern Italy is almost insignificant. Of the 16 million Jews living before the Second World War, only about 50,000 resided in Italy, compared to over six million in Eastern Europe. So the fact that half of all the medieval Hebrew manuscripts extant are or had been in Italy would seem extremely surprising. However, if we consider the Jewish population in Europe during the 15th century, before the expulsion from Spain, we find that with the exception of Spain and Portugal—which accounted for over half the Jewish population in Europe—the largest number of Jews in Europe lived in the Italian peninsula, accounting for about 20 percent of European Jewry. The Jewish populations of Spain and Portugal were expelled, or converted to

5 Of 2,044 manuscripts examined, 1,066 have some Italian provenance. Cf. the table at the end of this paper.

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benjamin richler Table 1. Number of Manuscripts of Italian Provenance

Subject Biblical commentaries 14–15th centuries Halakha 15th century Kabbalah 14–15th centuries Philosophy 14th century Sciences 14th century Liturgy 14–15th centuries Total

% of Italian provenance

Italian script

58

134

212

360

44

40

119

273

58

77

149

255

55

75

146

261

45

35

73

162

54

163

269

499

1,066

2,044

52

Italian provenance

Manuscripts examined

Christianity, in 1492 and 1497, respectively. They took their books with them when they left Spain, or hid them in the hope that they would eventually return. By the turn of the 16th century, there were almost no Hebrew manuscripts left in the Iberian peninsula.6 Why did Italy attract so many Hebrew manuscripts? I will not attempt to answer that question, but suffice to raise a few possibilities. True, the Inquisition did confiscate and even burn Jewish books, but the Jews in Italy were never expelled from the peninsula in large numbers, and when they were expelled from one area or city, they could relocate in a nearby region and did not have to traverse oceans or travel thousands of kilometres, so they could take their libraries with them on their journeys. Many manuscripts, it seems, were brought to Italy by exiles from Spain who came to live in Italy or passed through Italy on their way to the Ottoman Empire, and often sold the books they brought from Spain in order to provide funds they needed to resettle in the Orient. The great majority of Hebrew manuscripts were acquired by libraries from the late 16th century on, but especially from the late 18th century and during the 19th and the early 20th centuries. By the 19th century, the Jewish population in Eastern Europe outnumbered that in Italy by a ratio of 100 to 1, yet 40 to 50 percent of the Hebrew manuscripts acquired by 6 There are about 250 Hebrew manuscripts in libraries in Spain, but almost all of them were acquired in Italy and other countries in the 19th and 20th centuries.



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libraries and private collectors were found in Italy or had passed through Italy at some time. This puzzling statistic is not really as puzzling at it seems. By 1550, printed books were widely available and much of the Jewish canon had already been printed. There was no need to purchase medieval manuscripts in order to read most of the texts studied in houses of learning or to build a comprehensive Jewish library. In 1500, there were twice as many Jews in Italy than there were in Eastern Europe and almost as many as there were in all of Europe outside the peninsula. The libraries of the Jews included, of course, mostly manuscripts. But the growth in population in Eastern Europe, much of it apparently due to a high birthrate, did not necessarily result in an increase in the number of medieval manuscripts to be found there. Furthermore, we can assume that many private or synagogue libraries were destroyed during the Chmielnetski pogroms in the mid-17th century. Therefore, by the 19th century, there was no correlation between the number of manuscripts and the population in either Eastern Europe or Italy. Half the Jewish population of Europe resided in Italy towards the end of the 15th century and a proportionate number of manuscripts extant at that time were in Italy.

Rhymes To Sing and Rhymes To Hang Up: Some Remarks on a Lampoon in Yiddish By Elye Bokher (Venice 1514) Claudia Rosenzweig In the 15th and 16th centuries, Northern Italy became home to Jews migrating from many parts of Europe—Spain, Germany, and Poland, as well as Southern Italy. The Veneto, in particular, saw the founding of several Ashkenazi communities, in which Yiddish was not only the spoken tongue but also an established literary language. In this paper, I would like to present initial research findings on a song written in the style of a lampoon in 1514 by Elia Levita, a well-known figure in Jewish circles of the Italian Renaissance, while he was living in Venice. This song, which we will call Hamavdil-lid, according to the first word of the text, was the subject of studies published in the 1920s, a period that produced remarkable work in the field of Yiddish philology. Since then, important new material has been discovered, stimulating further significant research. In light of these developments, Elia Levita’s lampoon can now be reappraised in the context of Yiddish literary culture, and also against the background of European literature in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, and of Jewish history in Italy. Introduction As a short foreword, I would like to present a brief, and by no means exhaustive, summary of the past fifty years of research on Yiddish in Italy. This is, in fact, the first time that a volume from the important Italia Judaica series includes a specific contribution on Yiddish literature. Since the appearance of the pioneering catalogue, Jüdisch-deutsche Lite­ ratur, published by Moritz Steinschneider in the years 1848–1849,1 and Elazar Shulman’s Sfat yehudit-ashkenazit ve-sifrutah (Judeo-Ashkenazi language and literature) in 1913,2 several additional texts have come to light

1  M. Steinschneider, “Jüdisch-deutsche Literatur,” Serapeum (Leipzig 1848–1849). 2 E. Shulman, Sfat yehudit-ashkenazit ve-sifrutah (Riga 1913) [Hebrew].

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and perceptions have altered. The fact that Yiddish had flourished in Italy from the 15th century to the beginning of the 17th century is no longer regarded as a mere curiosity or footnote, but as an historical reality that is gaining ever wider relevance. Among the many publications in this field, some stand out as significant landmarks. One of the first seminal works was the critical edition of part of a manuscript now in the Bibliothèque Nationale de Paris (Héb. 589), containing the Yiddish translation of Pirkei Avot (Chapters of the fathers) followed by some mayses, or novellas, by Yaacov J. Maitlis, in 1978.3 In 1979, there came another contribution, from the field of linguistics: James Lee Haines wrote a dissertation on the phonology of a chivalric poem, the Bovo d’Antona (composed in 1507 and printed in 1541), pointing to the existence of a specific Northern Italian subdialect of East Franconian Yiddish, which was rich in Italian loan-words.4 Some of the most relevant studies to date in the field of Yiddish literature in Italy have been published by Chone Shmeruk. To quote but a few: his paper on the novella in Yiddish literature, his catalogue of Yiddish printing in Italy, and, in his Prokim fun der yidisher literatur-geshthike, the chapter on the writings of Elye Bokher—the author of the text presented here.5 In 1984, a facsimile edition of the only extant copy of the Küh-bukh (Book of cows), printed in Verona in 1595, was published in London.6 This important book, adorned with beautiful illustrations, had been considered lost. It is a major example of the way in which the Italian genre of collections of novelle, or Novellino, left its mark on Yiddish literature during the 16th century, and perhaps even before.7 3 Y.J. Maitlis (ed.), Anshel Levi, An Old Yiddish Midrash to the “Chapters of the Fathers,” (Jerusalem 1978) [Hebrew]. 4 J.L. Haines, The Phonology of the “Bovo Bukh.” Contribution to the History of East Franconian Yiddish, Ph.D. dissertation, Columbia University, 1979 (Ann Arbor, University Microfilms 79–24899). 5 C. Shmeruk, “Reshitah shel haproza hasippurit beyidish umerkazah be-Italia”, in Scritti in memoria di Leone Carpi. Saggi sull’ebraismo italiano, D. Carpi, A. Milano and A. Rofé (eds.) (Jerusalem 1967), pp. 119–140 [Hebrew]; id., “Defuse Yiddish be-Italia,” Italia, III/1–2 (1982), pp. 112–175 [Hebrew] [English and Italian translations of the introductory section of this article are now available in Chava Turniansky and Erika Timm, Yiddish in Italia, with the collaboration of Claudia Rosenzweig, Associazione Italiana degli Amici dell’Università di Gerusalemme (Milan 2003), pp. 171–180 and 181–190, respectively]; id., Prokim fun der yidisher literatur-geshikhte (Tel Aviv 1988) [Yiddish], especially pp. 141–156 (the Yiddish version is updated and is somewhat at variance with the earlier Hebrew version, which appeared under the title Sifrut Yiddish. Perakim letoldoteha [Tel Aviv 1978]). 6 M.N. Rosenfeld (ed.), The Book of Cows. A Facsimile Edition of the Famed Kuhbuch (London 1984). See also E. Katz (ed. and transl.), Book of Fables. The Yiddish Fable Collection of Reb Moshe Wallich. Frankfurt am Main 1697 (Detroit 1994). 7 On the influence of the Italian novella on the Yiddish mayse, see Shmeruk, Reshitah shel haproza hasippurit beyidish umerkazah be-Italia.



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In 1985, another important discovery brought fresh impetus, prompting a re-evaluation of the importance of Yiddish literature in Italy: a complete copy of Paris un’ Wiene, a chivalric romance by Elye Bokher that had been believed lost, was found by Anna Maria Babbi in the Library of the Seminario Vescovile in Verona.8 This led to the publication of a facsimile edition and two critical editions: one in Hebrew characters, by Chone Shmeruk, and one in transcription, with a comprehensive literary and philological commentary, by Erika Timm.9 This poem in ottava rima is arguably, together with Bovo d’Antona, one of the most important literary achievements of Old Yiddish literature, and of Italian Renaissance literature tout court. Also worth mentioning is the exhibition of Yiddish manuscripts and printed books from Italy, organised by the Italian Friends of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, and held in the Biblioteca Nazionale Braidense in Milan in 1986. The exhibition and inaugural lectures were published in 2003 in a bilingual (English and Italian) catalogue, Yiddish in Italia, edited by Chava Turniansky and Erika Timm.10 Finally, in 2005, Erika Timm published a comprehensive study of Yiddish translations of the Bible, comparing these to translations into German of the same period, and showing how Yiddish and German developed side-by-side, but in different directions. She concludes that the history of Old Yiddish and modern Yiddish should be seen as a continuum.11 While not comprehensive, I believe the above list conveys the relevance of Yiddish language and literature in Italy from an historical standpoint, in addition to the linguistic and literary perspectives. It also suggests that the achievements of the past half-century have laid the foundations for research in years to come.

8 A.M. Babbi, “In margine alla fortuna del ‘Paris e Vienna,’ ” Quaderni di Lingue e Letterature, 11 (1986), pp. 393–397; id., “A proposito del ‘Paris un Viene’ di Elia Bahur Levita,” Le Forme e la Storia, I (1989), pp. 129–137. 9 Elia Bachur Levita, Paris un Viene, ristampa anastatica dell’edizione di Francesco Dalle Donne, Verona 1594, introd. di Jean Baumgarten (Bologna 1988); C. Shmeruk and E. Timm (eds.), Paris un’ Viena (Jerusalem 1996); E. Timm and G.A. Beckmann (eds.), Paris un Wiene. Ein jiddischer Stanzenroman des 16. Jahrhunderts von (oder aus dem Umkreis von) Elia Levita (Tübingen 1996). 10 Turniansky and Timm, Yiddish in Italia. 11  Erika Timm and G.A. Beckmann, Historische Jiddische Semantik. Die Bibelübersetzungssprache als Faktor der Auseinenderentwicklung des jiddischen und des deutschen Wortschatzes (Tübingen 2005).

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claudia rosenzweig Elye Bokher and His Works

Among the fascinating figures in this context, we find Eliyahu ben Asher Ha-Levi Ashkenazi (1469–1549), also known as Elia Levita and, in the field of Yiddish studies, Elye Bokher. Reputed for his studies on Hebrew and Aramaic grammar and linguistics, he was also well known as a teacher of Christian Hebraists, and as the author of two chivalric poems in Yiddish, in ottava rima: Bovo d’Antona and Paris un’ Wiene.12 He most probably wrote many more works that have not reached us: the opening stanzas of the introduction to Paris un’ Wiene, printed in Verona in 1594 (and possibly written by the author, or one of his students, or his publisher), lament the passing of a prolific Elye Bokher: wer wert iz machen purim-spil, / wer špruch, wer kale-lider / wer wert ganze bücher reimen un’ schreiben, / das ir mit lachen wert di zeit vertreiben? (5.5–8) (“who will now make Purim-shpil, / and who (will make) poems,13 and who songs for the bride / who will put whole books into rhyme / so that you will spend your time laughing?”). Among works of his that have come down to us are two lampoons: a “Song about the Burning,” referring to the Rialto bridge, and a song starting with the words “The One That Divides the Sacred From the Profane.” For most scholars of Yiddish philology, these come under the category of pashkviln, from the Italian pasquinata. In what follows, I would like to focus on some aspects of the literary style of the second of these songs, and to draw attention to a few unanswered questions about the way in which this work illustrates the convergence of different literary genres and throws light on the reading habits of Ashkenazi communities in 16th-century Italy. The Manuscripts The two songs have survived in two manuscripts, each song appearing in both of them. The first of these, now in Trinity College Library, Cambridge [MS F.12.45 (Cod. Loewe n. 136)], was copied around 1530.14 The second 12 I accept Erika Timm’s view that Paris un’ Wiene was indeed written by Elye Bokher. See her introduction to Paris un Wiene. Ein jiddischer Stanzenroman, in particular Ch. 10, “Zum Problem der Autorschaft,” pp. CXXXVI–CXLV. 13 Erika Timm interprets this as “nicht gesungene kleine gedichte” (Paris un’ Wiene, p. 5, note 3). 14 For a full description see: H. Loewe, Catalogue of the Manuscripts in the Hebrew Character Collected and Bequeathed to Trinity College Library (Cambridge 1926), p. 130



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manuscript is of particular interest and significance: it is a miscellanea, copied in Venice in 1553 and 1561,15 and now kept in the Bodleian Library in Oxford [Department of Oriental Books, Cod. Neubauer 1217 (Canon. Or. 12)].16 This manuscript originated as a present from Menahem Katz to his daughter Serlina, then 21 years old. It should also be noted that, in addition to Elye Bokher’s so-called pashkviln, the manuscript includes several other texts: a collection of minhagim (religious customs); a text that belongs to the genre of the Frauen-bikhlen (books of halakhic instruction for women); translations into Yiddish of the five Megillot; and some liturgical texts, such as the hymn Akdamut, the Book of Ruth, the Song of Songs, the Book of Lamentations, the first chapter of Isaiah, the Book of Esther, Ecclesiastes, some selikhot, 72 verses from the Book of Psalms, a part of the pizmonim of Yom Kippur, Netane Toqef, and a translation into Yiddish of the Pirke Avot.17 It also has seven mayses, a bilingual (Hebrew and Yiddish) song (Vil ir hern eyn noyes gerikht), a song in Yiddish and Italian on the Ages of Man,18 a contest between water and wine,19 some riddles, and a wedding song or song for Purim.20 The copyist was Kalman (Kalonimus) ben Shimon Pescarol. This manuscript presents such a

(N. 136); Turniansky and Timm, Yiddish in Italia, pp. 108–109 (N. 52); S. Zfatman, Yiddish Narrative Prose From Its Beginnings to “Shivhei ha-Besht” (1504–1814). An Annotated Bibliography (Jerusalem 1985), pp. 12–13 [Hebrew]. Erika Timm considers this manuscript of great importance as it contains three mayses that are presented as being independent of biblical and liturgical texts. One of these mayses, entitled Mayse fun Worms, was examined by S. Zfatman in her The Marriage of a Mortal Man and a She-Demon. The Transformations of a Motif in the Folk Narrative of Ashkenazi Jewry in the Sixteenth-Nineteenth Centuries (Jerusalem 1987) [Hebrew], especially pp. 119–127 for the text of the mayse, and pp. 149–163 for the photographic reproduction of it. 15 According to the colophon, the exact year seems to be 1554: the burning of the Talmud in Rome in 1553 is mentioned in f. 207r. 16 For a full description see: A. Neubauer, Catalogue of the Hebrew Manuscripts in the Bodleian Library and in the College Libraries of Oxford. Including Mss. in Other Languages, Which are Written with Hebrew Characters, or Relating to the Hebrew Language or Literature, and a Few Samaritan Mss. (Oxford 1886–1906), N. 1217; N. Shtif, “A geshribene yidishe bibliotek in a yidish hoyz in Venetsye in mitn zekhtsentn yorhundert,” Tsaytshrift (Minsk), 1 (1926), pp. 141–150 and 2–3 (1928), pp. 525–544, especially I, p. 142; Turniansky and Timm, Yiddish in Italia, pp. 96–99 (N. 47). 17 Levi, An Old Yiddish Midrash to the “Chapters of the Fathers.” 18 L. Landau, “A German-Italian Satire on the Ages of Man,” Modern Language Notes, XXXI (1916), pp. 465–471. 19 For the extremely rich tradition of bilingual texts in Hebrew and Yiddish, see C. Turniansky (ed.), Alexander ben Yizhak Pfaffenhofen, Sefer massah u’merivah, 1627, Introduction (Jerusalem 1985), especially pp. 126–171. 20 For a full description see: Turniansky and Timm, Yiddish in Italia, pp. 96–97 (N. 47). See also S. Zfatman, Yiddish Narrative Prose, pp. 13–14.

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rich variety of texts and different genres that Nokhum Shtif has called it a gants hoyz-bibliotek, an entire private library.21 The first song, which, following Shmeruk, we will call Sreyfe-lid, a “song about the fire,” appears in both manuscripts: in the Venetian miscellanea copied between 1553 and 1561, cc. 258v–261v, and in the Cambridge manuscript, cc. 2–3. It has 25 stanzas, to be sung to the tune (nign) of the Sabbath song (zmire) Tsur mishelo akhalnu (God, Whose food we have eaten).22 It was published by Shmeruk in 1966.23 The second song, the Hamavdil-lid, “Who (which) divides the sacred from the profane,” was published by Nokhem Shtif in the two different versions that have survived. The first, from Oxford (cc. 203r–207r), was published in 1926 and has 55 stanzas.24 The second version, from Cambridge (4r–9v) and published in 1928,25 is longer, with 75 stanzas. It was composed to the nign of the Hebrew piyut (a poetic composition of liturgical character) Ha-mavdil ben kodesh le-hol, which is part of the Havdala ceremony.26 Both songs were included in J.C. Frakes’ anthology of Early Yiddish literature.27 Few texts have survived from the period in which these two songs were written. The fact that both songs have been preserved in two manuscripts, and that these were copied after Elye Bokher’s death, suggests that they must have been quite popular—keeping in mind, too, that manuscripts

21 Shtif, “A geshribene yidishe bibliotek,” p. 142. 22 I. Davidson, Thesaurus of Medieval Hebrew Poetry, 4 vols. (New York 1924–1938), III, letter tzade (N. 215) [Hebrew]. It has been possible to ascertain the melody of this song, thanks to the existence of a manuscript with musical annotation, dated between 1505 and 1518. See I. Adler, Le fonti musicali manoscritte degli ebrei ashkenaziti in Italia nei secoli XVI–XVIII, Turniansky and Timm, Yiddish in Italia, pp. 229–231. 23 C. Shmeruk, “Hashir ‘al hasrefà bi-Venetziya le-Eliyahu Bachur,” Kobez al Yad, 16, II (1966), pp. 343–368 [Hebrew]. 24 N. Shtif, “Elye Halevi’s lid ‘Hamavdil,’ ” Tsaytshrift (Minsk), 1 (1926), pp. 150–58. 25 N. Shtif, “Naye materialn tsu Elye Halevi’s Hamavdil-lid,” Shriftn, I (Kiev 1928). 26 This piyut appears in various versions of prayer books belonging to the different rites: Ashkenazic, Sephardic, Italian, that of Avignon, and even in the Karaite rite. It is an acrosticon attributed to the Spanish poet Yizhak ben Yehuda ibn Ghayyat (1030–1089). The initial letters of each stanza form the name Yizhak ha-katan (“the little Yizhak”), but the attribution has not been confirmed. See Davidson, Thesaurus of Medieval Hebrew Poetry, II, letter he, N. 741 [Hebrew]. Of the manuscripts with Hamavdil-lid, the one kept in Oxford (196r) contains a translation into Yiddish of the first stanza of the Hebrew text: ‫ אונזר זונדא בורצייא‬. ‫ דער דו שיידט צווישן דער הייליקייט אונ’ צו דען און הייליקייט‬.‫המבדיל‬ : ‫אונ’ אונזר זוינן ער זול מערן אז זנד דז מער אונ’ אז די שטערו ביי דער נכט‬ 27 J.C. Frakes (ed.), Early Yiddish Texts 1100–1750 (Oxford-New York 2004), NN. 34–35, pp. 140–164.



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149

were usually produced for local use. Nokhum Shtif argues that they became a kind of folks-lider, folk songs.28 The Text From what we know, it appears that Elye Bokher wrote this song in 1514 while in Venice, and it seems to be a response to, or a continuation of, the other song noted here, the Sreyfe-lid.29 There, the author defends himself against the accusation of someone named Hillel Cohen, who denounced him for having taken advantage of the fire that burned the Rialto bridge in 1514, in order to steal from shops; as a result of the charges, he was imprisoned. In Hamavdil-lid, the Yiddish poet seems to continue his defence, and to give a vehement riposte to a supposed lampoon by the same Hillel Cohen, in the best tradition of Italian literary contest (see, for example, Dante and the tenzone with Forese Donati).30 This, inter alia, led the distinguished philologist of Old Yiddish literature, Maks Erik, to write in 1928 that this song belongs to the genre of the Italian pasquinata: “pashkvil in italienishn zin fun vort: a zidlverk, efentlekh aroysgehongen, vu s’vern oysgerekhnt ale maysim toyvim fun a bashtimter perzon”—a pashkvil in the Italian sense of the word: a defamatory work, openly displayed, which enumerates all the ma’aysim tovim, the good deeds of a specific person.31 Although the habit of hanging written material on walls must be much older, the pasquinata is an Italian literary genre that became widespread during the first half of the 16th century. Its name derives from a statue of the Hellenistic period in Rome, representing a man known to Rome’s inhabitants as Pasquino. Anonymous writers used to affix their poetic compositions, first in Latin, and later in volgare

28 Shtif, Naye materialn, p. 154. 29 Some scholars have claimed that this song was written in 1510, others in 1514. The Rialto bridge fire occurred in January 1514, and much has been written on the subject. So there can be no doubt that the song was composed in that year. For a full account of the historical research on this subject, see my introduction to C. Rosenzweig and A.L. Callow (eds. and transl.), Elye Bokher, Due canti yiddish. Rime di un poeta ashkenazita nella Venezia del Cinquecento (Arezzo 2010), pp. 35–40. 30 For a definition of the tenzone, see G. Bertone, Breve dizionario di metrica italiana (Turin 1999), s. v., pp. 194–195: “È, nella poesia romanza, una serie (due o più) di componimenti che due o più rimatori si scambiavano su un medesimo oggetto del contendere.” 31 M. Erik, Di geshikhte fun der yidisher literatur fun di eltste tsaytn biz der Haskole-tkufe (Warsaw 1928), p. 180.

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(Italian), on this statue. These poems were frequently political satires aimed at the Church and the Pontifical State.32 An important period source on this subject is Elye Bokher himself, who in his Sefer ha-Tishbi (Book of Elijah the Tishbite), printed in Isny in 1541, gave an etymology of the Yiddish term katoves, which is strongly reminiscent of the genre of the pasquinata: ‫ וממשל משלים כתב והוא מהענין‬/ ‫ַֿכּ ַהֿב קורין לאדם שהוא בעל צחיות בדבורו‬ ‫ משלים‬/ ‫ פיר’ סופר כי כן בימים קדמונים היו בעלי צחיות ומושלי‬/ ‫הראשון‬ ‫ הומיות בסתר כדי שלא‬/ ‫כותבים דבריהם על פתחי בתי הנדיבים או ברחובת‬ ‫ עוד היום ברומי ואותן הדברים נקראים ַכּ ָתּבוּ‬/ ‫ וכן מנהג‬. ‫יודע מי הוא הכותב‬ ‫ מלשון טוב‬/ ‫ העולם טועים וסבורים שהוא כתוב בטית ַכּטּוֹב וְ ַכטוֹבוּת‬/ ‫ ורוב‬.‫ת‬ ‫ואינם מבחינים בין רע לטוב׃‬ ]‫ב‬45 ’‫ ע‬,1541 ‫[ספר התשבי‚ איזנא‬

(Kattav. [Thus] is called a gifted orator and one who composed in rhymed prose33 is a writer, and this derived from the first meaning, and its meaning is writer, for in times gone by, writers of humorous texts and of rhymed prose used to write their works on the doors of the houses of the rich nobles or in the squares, secretly, so that it should not be known who was the author. And this is the practice to this day in Rome and these same works are called katoves. And most people make a mistake because they write this term with tet, ketov and ketovot from the term tov [good] and they do not distinguish ben raʿ latov [between bad and good]).34

32 See S. Battaglia, Grande dizionario della lingua italiana, 31 vols. (Turin 1994–2002), s. v., and Letteratura italiana, diretta da A. Rosa, Gli Autori. Dizionario bio-bibliografico e Indici, 2 vols. (Turin 1991), 2, pp. 1346–1347. 33 It is difficult to find an exact translation for this term since it has so many different meanings. Erika Timm proposes Sprichwörter und Sentenzen. See E. Timm and G.A. Beckmann, Etymologische Studien zum Jiddischen (Hamburg 2006), p. 80. 34 Sefer ha-Tishbi, Isny 1541, 45v, s. v. katav, and Turniansky and Timm, Yiddish in Italia, p. 116 (N. 57, where the page quoted here is reproduced); see also N. Shtif, “Naye materialn,” pp. 148–179, especially p. 157. On the term katoves, see M. Weinreich, Shtaplen (Berlin 1923), p. 81 and Timm and Beckmann, Etymologische Studien zum Jiddischen, pp. 75–99. Weinreich notes that in his translation of this book into Latin, Paulus Fagius renders katoves as facetiae (ibid., note 2). The custom of affixing texts to doors was widespread in Italian Renaissance society, where there was “una ricca e studiata tradizione antropologica e giudiziaria: quella dell’infamia. Nella prima età moderna le modalità per privare qualcuno di un bene fondamentale quale veniva considerato l’onore erano diverse [. . .]; ma una fra esse era proprio quella di appendere testi o materiali infamanti alla porta o comunque alla facciata della casa degli interessati” (O. Niccoli, Rinascimento anticlericale. Infamia, propaganda e satira in Italia tra Quattro e Cinquecento [Bari 2005], p. 29).

‫‪151‬‬

‫ ‪rhymes to sing and rhymes to hang up‬‬

‫ ‬

‫‪In the song itself, we read a reference to this practice of letteratura‬‬ ‫‪dell’infamia, literature of infamy or defamation. In the second stanza of‬‬ ‫‪the Cambridge version we read:‬‬ ‫ער הוט ווידר איין ריים אויף מיר גימאכֿט‪:‬‬ ‫אבר ניט ויל לוייט האבן זיין גילאכֿט‪:‬‬ ‫ווען אייטיל ֻלויגן הוט ער גיטראכֿט‪:‬‬ ‫אזו ור וואר זול ער ניט אויש לעבן די לילה‪:‬‬ ‫[המבדיל‪-‬ליד‚ קמברידג‚ בית ב]‬ ‫‪He wrote another rhyme against me‬‬ ‫‪but not many people laughed at it‬‬ ‫‪because it was pure lies he wrote‬‬ ‫‪so he really should not survive the night.‬‬ ‫]‪[Hamavdil-lid, Cambridge, stanza 2‬‬

‫‪In the final stanzas we find more interesting information:35‬‬ ‫הילל איך הון דיך בּצלט ווז דו הושט גיטריבן‪:‬‬ ‫עז ווער וועשר דו ווערשט דהיימן גיבליבן‪:‬‬ ‫הבּ דיר דז איז דו די גריבן‪:‬‬ ‫מיט דעם קרופף ליבּ אויף די לילה‪:‬‬ ‫ווען דו ווישט ווי דיר דיין ריים אן צעמן‪:‬‬ ‫איין ריים צו מכן ווירשטו דיך שעמן‪:‬‬ ‫ווילשטו דיך ריים גיגן מיר אן נעמן‪:‬‬ ‫להבדיל בּין יום ובין לילה‪:‬‬ ‫או’ איניורנט או’ פורפאנט‬ ‫דו זיך דען ציטל אן די וואנט‬ ‫דען הון איך גימכט מיט מיינר הנט‬ ‫מאך אויך איין זולכן דיזי לילה‬ ‫איך ור הייש דיר אי דו אויז גיט איין חודש‬ ‫איך וויל איין אויף דיך מכן אין לשון הקדש‬ ‫גמכט נוך דעם משקל בון שקל הקדש‬ ‫והגית בּו יומם ולילה‬ ‫אונ’ הון זיך איך וועל גי פיזר ציהן‬ ‫די ריים זולן נוך אין דער שטאנפא ווערן גידיהן‬ ‫אז ווייט איז די ולעדר מויז [‪]. . .‬‬ ‫בּיי דער לילה‬ ‫[המבדיל‪-‬ליד‪ ,‬קמברידג‪ ,‬בית סט‪ ,‬כודליאנה מז‪-‬נא]‬

‫‪35 The two versions of the poem present some discrepancies. For the stanzas that‬‬ ‫‪appear in both manuscripts, I have followed the text edited by Shtif, Hamavdil. I hope‬‬ ‫‪to be able to prepare a new critical edition in the future. I put the translation of Hebrew‬‬ ‫‪words and expressions in italics.‬‬

152

claudia rosenzweig Hillel, I repaid you for what you made up you would have done better to stay at home take that! here it is, the “scrap of fat” with the crop he licks in the night. If you knew how well your rhymes suit you you would be ashamed to write one yourself do you think of daring to rhyme against me? there is a difference as between day and night. Oh ignoramus! oh furfant (rascal)!36 Look at the slip of paper on the wall I composed it with my own hand you write one like it this very night! I promise you that before a month goes by I will compose one in Hebrew using the rhyme of the Shekel ha-Kodesh37 thou shalt meditate thereon day and night.38 And see, I will go to Pesaro39 so that the rhymes should come out well in print and far as a bat [. . .] in the night. [Hamavdil-lid, Cambridge, stanzas 69; Oxford, Bodleian, 47–51]

36 The term ignorant is a loan-word from Italian, more precisely from the Venetian dialect; see G. Boerio, Dizionario del dialetto veneziano, seconda edizione aumentata e corretta, aggiuntovi l’indice italiano veneto (Venice 1856), s. v. The same is true for furfant, from Old French forfaire, “agire (faire) fuori (fors) della legge, del dovere” (M. Cortellazzo and P. Zolli, DELI—Dizionario Etimologico della Lingua Italiana [Bologna2 1999], s. v.), which appears quite often in the repertoire of offensive words in the Venice of that period. See E. Horodowich, Language and Statecraft in Early Modern Venice (New York 2008), pp. 100–101 and especially p. 125. 37 It is probably the collection of proverbs and parables in rhyme, written by Yosef Kimhi (1105–1170), published with an English translation by H. Gollancz for the Oxford University Press in 1919. See also: I. Davidson, “Joseph Kimhi’s ‘Shekel HaKodesh,’ ” The Jewish Quarterly Review, NS, 13/4 (1923), pp. 507–512 and A. Marx, “Gabirol’s Authorship of the Choice of Pearls and the Two Versions of Joseph Kimhi’s Shekel haKodesh,” Hebrew Union College Annual 4 (1927), pp. 433–448. 38 Joshua 1:8. 39 It was in Pesaro that Gershon Soncino had his printing shop, in the years 1507–1520. By 1514, the year in which he wrote Hamavdil-lid, Elye Bokher had already sent two of his works there to be printed by the same Gershon Soncino: his commentary on the grammar manual Mahalakh Shvileʾ Hadaʿat by Moshe Kimhi, printed in Pesaro in 1508, and his commentary on the anonymous grammar Petakh dvaray, printed there in 1507 (see G.E. Weil, Élie Lévita. Humaniste et massoréte (1469–1549) [Leiden 1963], p. 42). Later, in 1520, his Pirke Eliahu was printed there as well (A.M. Habermann, Hamadipisim bene’ Soncino. Toldotehem vereshimat hassefarim ha‘ivrim shenidpesu ‘al yedehem [Vienna 1933], p. 59, N. 68 [Hebrew]).



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From what we read, we can establish certain points: 1 – There was a tradition in Yiddish of tenzone or contests between two poets, and the poems of these contests could be violent and derogatory. 2 – There was a custom of displaying these compositions on the walls of houses or in public squares, and this was done covertly, by night. This practice was also familiar to the Jews. 3 – The invention of printing could well have offered an opportunity to transform this very localised practice into a successful literary genre with a broader circulation. This seems to confirm the impression that what we have here is a Jewish pasquinata. But I would like to point to a further element—the actual content, inserted into the framework of this derogatory poem, is striking. Hillel Cohen is presented as an uncouth man, who is wicked and greedy; he has a brother who is a friar (v. 5,3 C) or a priest (v. 5,3 B), is a goy gamur (a complete gentile) (v. 6,2 CB), because he is unable to pray; he talks about things he does not really know (8 C); he pretends to be an expert in Hebrew grammar but he does not know even the simplest rules (9–11 C); he earns his living as a melammed but does not know how to teach and transmits only his bad qualities (13–17 C); he plays cards with nonJews (v. 19,2 C); and he has been put on trial by the Venetian authorities (20–24 C). In the second part of the poem, we learn about his three wives: the first he divorced without ever touching her (stanza 27 C, 7 B); the second is a devout girl, with whom Hillel Cohen cannot have sexual intercourse and who dies of sorrow (29 C, 9 B–38 C, 16 B); he does not even observe the seven days of mourning before seeking a new wife (39 C, 17 B–40 C, 18 B); he finds one, and cannot have sexual relations with her either, doing “strange things” with her, meshune dinger (44 C, 22 B, v. 2); they often quarrel and he is forced to give her a divorce (42 C, 20 B–59 C, 37 B); at this point he starts looking for a new wife, but he cannot find one (60 C, 38 B–61 C, 39 B); so he has sex with dogs and cats (62 C, 40 B), with a four- or five-year-old child (64 C, 42 B–66,1–2 C, 44,1–2 B), and in the end, with a hen (vv. 66,3–4 C, 44,3–4 B). It should be noted that the language here is very explicit and vulgar, belonging to a “low” register. The realism is very conscious and deliberate,

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‫ ‪154‬‬

‫‪as for example in the following stanzas, where we read about his marriage‬‬ ‫‪with his third wife:‬‬ ‫דער נוך וונט ער אייני דורט צו מאנטו‬ ‫איין אורט דו ער ניט ווז דו בּיקנטו‬ ‫זי גאבּ אים אבּר נוך געלט נוך פפנטו‬ ‫נוך כסות יום נוך כסות לילה‬ ‫אז בּלד נוך די בּרוילפט טרייבּ ער זי אויז‪.‬‬ ‫ער ור דינגט זי אין איין אנדער הויז‬ ‫בור גרושן אנגשט בור גרושן גרויז‬ ‫ער מושט בּא איר ליגן אלי לילה‬ ‫אונ’ דו מן זי צו אננדר שלופן בוירט‬ ‫דו טעט ער ניט אז איין מן צו גיבּורט‬ ‫איין ווילדן היינדל ער מיט איר בורט‬ ‫זי וויינט אונ’ שריי די גנץ לילה‬ ‫ער גינג מיט איר משונה דינגר‬ ‫די ויש וואלט ער ור דינן מיט דין וינגר‬ ‫קוזי מונטייאנה אונ’ שמואל זינגר‬ ‫מוכט איינר גערו צו הורן איין גנצי לילה‬ ‫ווי זי הבן גיטענט בור אים מענכי שוואנק זו גוטן‬ ‫וויא ער הט גקפט איין פּוטה‬ ‫די שעכטט ער אונ’ מכט זי בלוטן‬ ‫אי ויהי בחצי הלילה‬ ‫דו צוך ער הר בון דער אגילאשטר‬ ‫אונ’ זייט זע אםתר מיין ליבי אםתר‬ ‫דו מיט שמיר דז לייליך אי לענגר אי ועשטר‬ ‫ביהלט מיך ביי כבוד דיזי לילה‬ ‫זג אידרמן איך זיי‪-‬א געוועזן איין מן‪.‬‬ ‫זו וויל איך דקר דינען מיט ווז איך קן‪.‬‬ ‫ווז דו בּגערסט דז הייש מיר אן‪.‬‬ ‫לוש מיך נויירט און ור ווארן בּיז דער לילה‬ ‫די טרופּפן ורהיש אים ווז ער וואלט‪.‬‬ ‫דז ער זי נויירט ניט מין קרעצן זולט‪.‬‬ ‫אבּר זי גדוכט קום איך בּון דיר דז מולט‬ ‫דו דר שאנפשט מיך ניט מין קיין לילה‪.‬‬ ‫אזו קם זי אים ניט ויל מין אן זיין זייט‪.‬‬ ‫זי גבּ אים צו ורשטין זי העט שטעץ איר צייט‪.‬‬ ‫צווישן אין הובּ אן גרושר שטרייט‪.‬‬ ‫ערב ובקר יום ולילה‪.‬‬ ‫[המבדיל‪-‬ליד‪ ,‬קמברידג‪ ,‬בית מא–מט‪ ,‬בודליאנה יט–כז]‬



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Then he found another [wife] in Mantua A place where he was not known. But she gave him neither money nor pledge40 Neither covering for the day nor covering for the night. Immediately after the wedding he sent her away He sent her into service in another house For the great fear and the great terror He has to lie with her every night. She is taken to sleep with one and another He does not behave as befits a man He makes wild transactions with her She cries and screams the whole night. He did weird things with her He wants to earn the fish with his finger.41 Kusi Montagnana42 and Shmuel Zinger One could gladly listen to them all night. (Telling) how they have sung before him so many good facetiae43 How he bought a turkey 40 In the text, pfanto. According to Shtif, this is the past tense of finden, “to find”; more simply, however, it may be from the German Pfand, “pledge, pawn,” freely adapted to rhyme with “Mantua,” Italian for Mantova, here Manto. 41 I am not sure about the exact meaning of this verse. Shtif interprets var-dinen as verdünnen, “to make thin, to dilute, to water,” and visch as Yiddish for fis, “feet.” The expression is also found in a manuscript entitled Seder Nashim (Cambridge University Library, Or. Add. 547), copied in Italy in 1504. See Weinreich, Bilder, especially pp. 146–147, and Turniansky and Timm, Yiddish in Italia, No. 31, pp. 62–63. I am grateful to Chava Turniansky for having brought this passage to my attention. The expression alludes perhaps to the berakha ledagim, the “blessing to the fishes,” a euphemistic expression of sexual intercourse used in the Talmud, Masekhet Ketubbot, 5r. 42 Kusi (Meshullam) Montagnana was probably a member of an Ashkenazic family whose activity is well attested in Italy in the 15th and 16th centuries, especially in the realm of printing: in 1475, a Meshullam Kusi was the founder of a Jewish printing house in Piove di Sacco, close to Padua. See A. Freimann, “Haben Jüdische Flüchtlinge aus Mainz im XV. Jahrhundert den Buchdruck nach Italien gebracht?” Journal of Jewish Bibliography, I (October 1938–July 1939), pp. 9–11; D. Nissim, “Gli ebrei a Piove di Sacco e la prima tipografia ebraica,” La Rassegna Mensile di Israel, XXXVIII, N. 7–8 (July–August 1972), pp. 167–176, and id., “Famiglie Rapa e Rapaport nell’Italia settentrionale (sec. XV–XVI). Con un’appendice sull’origine della Miscellanea Rotschild,” La Rassegna Mensile di Israel, LXVII, NN. 1–2 (June-August 2001), pp. 177–192. The Kusi Montagnana quoted here could well be the same Kusi Meshullam who composed the principal part of a Yiddish manuscript now kept in the Russian State Library in Moscow (Guenzburg Collection 722). See also Turniansky and Timm, Yiddish in Italia, N. 46, pp. 93–95. I am grateful to Benjamin Richler for having brought these facts to my attention. 43 The Yiddish term is schwank, which also appears in the other song, the Sreyfe-lid, v. 14,6, and in Elye Bokher’s poem Paris un’ Wiene (71.1, 71.5, 590.8). In Shmeruk’s opinion (“Hashir ‘al hasrefà,” p. 357), since schwank in German has a meaning similar to that of katoves and facetia, it is used here with that meaning.

156

claudia rosenzweig That he slaughtered and bled Before And it came to pass, at midnight.44 So he took out a magpie45 and said: look Ester, my beloved Ester use this to grease the sheets keep me honoured this night. Tell everybody that I am a (real) man so I will be at your service as much I can command me whatever you desire but let me off troubles until night. The fool promised him what he wanted just so that he would “scratch” her no more but she thought: if this time I can get rid of you, you will grasp no more in the night. So she came no more over to his side she gave him to understand that she always had her menses between them there started a big fight in the evening and in the morning the day and the night. [Hamavdil-lid, Cambridge, stanzas 44.3–4–49; Oxford, Bodleian, 22.3–4–27]

The themes of impotence and the fear of shame on the wedding night are given particular attention here, reflecting a period in which, as Roni Weinstein has pointed out, there was no distance between private and public life (in some Orthodox Jewish communities this still holds true, and is a means of exerting control over individuals). This situation was reinforced by the fact that Jews used to live in crowded quarters and, later, in ghettos; usually there was one large room for the whole family, with no privacy for couples.46

44 Exodus 12:29. 45 The Yiddish term is agel’ester, in Middle High German agelster, “magpie” (Lexer), and appears in some Yiddish translations of the Bible to render the Hebrew rakham, “carrion-vulture” (F. Brown, S.R. Driver and A. Briggs, A Hebrew and English Lexicon of the Old Testament [Oxford 1957], s. v.), and especially Timm and Beckmann Historische Jiddische Semantik, pp. 656–657. 46 R. Weinstein, “Impotence and the Preservation of the Family in the Jewish Community of Italy in the Early Modern Period,” I. Bartal and I. Gafni (eds.), Sexuality and the Family in History. Collected Essays (Jerusalem 1998), pp. 159–173 [Hebrew], especially pp. 166–167 and 172. See also H.Z. Adelman, “Virginity: Women’s Body as a State of Mind. Destiny becomes Biology,” M. Diemling and G. Veltri (eds.), The Jewish Body. Corporeality, Society, and Identity in the Renaissance and Early Modern Period (Leiden-Boston 2009), pp. 179–213, and in particular the chapters on Examination in Italy, pp. 200–203, and Masculinity on Trial, pp. 204–206.

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‫‪In the following stanzas the poor girl manages to escape, but he suc‬‬‫‪ceeds in finding her and asks her to go back to Venice with him. She‬‬ ‫‪resists:‬‬ ‫זי זייט עז הילפט דיך ניט אל דיין שוואצן‪.‬‬ ‫דו זולסט מיך ניט מין מיט דעם ווינגר קרצן‪.‬‬ ‫ליגשטו ניט אייר דו זולסטו גאצן‪.‬‬ ‫דו בישט ניט שומר מה הלילה‪.‬‬ ‫איך מג ניט ליידן דז דו מיך בּיזודילשט‬ ‫אונ’ בּיגייבּרשט אונ’ בּישנודילשט‪.‬‬ ‫אונ’ מיט דעם וינגר דינן וואודילשט‪.‬‬ ‫עזה כל הלילה‪.‬‬ ‫אונ’ דז דו מיך דר שרענקשט מיט דיינן בּורצן‪.‬‬ ‫זי שלוגן זיך אן אננדר איך ווייל אוייכס קורצן‪.‬‬ ‫ער שלוג זי אין קויפפֿ דז זי ווז שטורצן‪.‬‬ ‫ובכה תבכה בלילה‪.‬‬ ‫[המבדיל‪-‬ליד‪ ,‬קמברידג‪ ,‬בית נד–נו‪ ,‬בודליאנה לב–לד]‬ ‫זי זייט עז הילפט דיך ניט אל דיין שוואצן‪.‬‬ ‫דו זולסט מיך ניט מין מיט דעם ווינגר קרצן‪.‬‬ ‫ליגשטו ניט אייר דו זולסטו גאצן‪.‬‬ ‫דו בישט ניט שומר מה הץילה‪.‬‬ ‫איך מג ניט ליידן דז דו מיך בּיזודילשט‬ ‫אונ’ בּיגייבּרשט אונ’ בּישנודילשט‪.‬‬ ‫אונ’ מיט דעם וינגר דינן וואודילשט‪.‬‬ ‫עזה כל הלילה‪.‬‬ ‫אונ’ דז דו מיך דר שרענקשט מיט דיינן בּורצן‪.‬‬ ‫זי שלוגן זיך אן אננדר איך ווייל אוייכס קורצן‪.‬‬ ‫ער שלוג זי אין קויפפֿ דז זי ווז שטורצן‪.‬‬ ‫ובכה תבכה בלילה‪.‬‬ ‫[המבדיל‪-‬ליד‪ ,‬קמברידג‪ ,‬בית נד–נו‪ ,‬בודליאנה לב–לד]‬ ‫‪She said: all your jabbering won’t help‬‬ ‫‪you don’t have to scratch with your finger any more‬‬ ‫‪you do not lay eggs that you have to cackle‬‬ ‫‪you are not a watchman, what remains of the night.47‬‬ ‫]‪[Hamavdil-lid, Cambridge, stanzas 54–56; Oxford, Bodleian, 32–34‬‬ ‫‪I can’t stand it that you defile me‬‬ ‫‪you flood me with your slime and make me filthy‬‬ ‫‪and with your finger in there you move‬‬ ‫‪with a strong east wind all the night.48‬‬

‫‪47 Isaiah 21:11.‬‬ ‫‪48 Exodus 14:21.‬‬

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claudia rosenzweig And that you fill me with the stink of your farts And they gave one another a sound thrashing, I will tell you in brief: He hit her on the head so hard that she fell heavily to the floor She weepeth sore in the night.49

In the end, Hillel Cohen is forced to give his wife a divorce. Their story, often conveyed in direct dialogue and using very crude language, is full of verbal and physical violence, but remains non-tragic in tone. One has the impression that the absence of tragedy is also a consequence of the biblical quotations that are brought in at the end of each of these provocative stanzas, and that are also found elsewhere in the text. In this way, Elye Bokher’s expressive style is a kind of Hebrew-Yiddish hybrid, where the sacred nature of the quotations is used to complement and reinforce descriptions of the “low” object of the parody. The hyperbolic use of scriptural references thus becomes a distancing, comic device. Final Remarks In Hamavdil-lid, we find evidence of the convergence of many different literary traditions, some peculiar to the Jewish world, some inherent to the European culture of the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, especially in France, Germany, and Italy, where Ashkenazi communities developed; at the same time, however, we can discern characteristics that are peculiar to Elye Bokher. In these final remarks, I will attempt to sum up both what we know on the subject and what remains in the realm of hypothesis. Without question, the author offers impressive evidence of his poetic talent and his ability to play with the full range of both Hebrew and Yiddish vocabulary, creating a complex work rich in intertextuality and humour. This text thus enhances our understanding of key elements in Elye Bokher’s chivalric poems: the mordant humour; the realistic diction with its wealth of references to material life in general, including its sexual aspects; his ability to bring into poetry the “material bodily principle, that is, images of the human body with its food, drink, defecation, and sexual life”; the sharp depictions of situation and character. All these are important features of our poet’s style, and also of the writings of some of his Italian and European literary contemporaries, such as Luigi Pulci, Teofilo Folengo, and François Rabelais. 49 Lamentations 1:2.



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Many questions remain open to speculation. The first is: Did Hillel Cohen really exist? Or is he an invented character? It has also been suggested that he might be the selfsame Elye Bokher, having a joke at his own expense. The second question, connected to the first, is: To which literary genre does this song belong? Is this a pasquinata, or a song that is part of a contest, that is, poetry directed as a libel against a specific adversary? Might it be a sample of the so-called poesia giocosa and burlesca, the same genre that is attested in some parts of Dante’s Rime,50 in works by Luigi Pulci, Lorenzo de’ Medici, Angelo Poliziano, and, some years later, Pietro Aretino? Should this song be considered as belonging to the genre of canti carnascialeschi and the repertoire of the jongleurs, who continued to perform in Italian squares well beyond the Middle Ages? Might the fact that the song parodies a piyut from the Makhzor suggest the existence of some kind of Jewish parallel to Goliardic poetry? In his edition of the Sreyfe-lid, the second so-called pashkvil, Chone Shmeruk proposes that there may have been a tradition of lampoons in Yiddish literature, since we find that in the Muser-bikher of the period many rabbis prohibited the writing of such derogatory texts. He lists a number of other Yiddish lampoons,51 and sees in these texts a genre of derogatory writing that was widespread and gave expression to a popular aspect of the culture. The lampoon’s defining characteristics are as follows: 1) it expresses criticism of Jewish society, especially of the men who wielded power in the community; 2) the text is often composed to the melody (nign) of well-known synagogal piyutim;52 and 3) the authors are “professional vagabonds” from the margins of the Jewish community. From this perspective, Elye Bokher also is seen as a “wandering intellectual.”53 50 See especially the tenzone with Forese: “La sequenza dei sonetti (LXXIII, LXXV, LXX– VII di Dante; LXXIV, LXXVI, LXXVIII di Forese) si risolve in uno scambio di insinuazioni diffamatorie e accuse volgari. Dante, che nel confronto con Forese appare più scaltrito e graffiante, più abile nella tecnica dell’allusione metaforica calunniosa e ingiuriosa, contesta all’altro l’inadempienza ai doveri coniugali, golosità [. . .], attitudine alla violenza e al furto, paternità incerta [. . .]; quello replica insinuando forse un’accusa di usura al padre morto, imputando a lui illeciti guadagni” (E. Malato, Dante [Rome 1999], p. 115). 51 I quote freely from Shmeruk, “Hashir ‘al hasrefà,” pp. 351–352. 52 For a similar technique, see D. Sadan, “Af beri yatriakh ‘av,” in Mekokho shel Miqra’ (Jerusalem-Tel Aviv 1987), pp. 138–146 and Y. Granat, ‘Af morgn nokh yontef ’ (forthcoming in the collection of papers in honour of Chava Turniansky). Both studies deal with a synagogal poetic composition in Hebrew that is kept as the framework for a Yiddish folksong on poverty. 53 Shmeruk, “Hashir ‘al hasrefà,” pp. 352–353. In support of this interpretation, Shmeruk quotes the first stanzas of Canto VII of Paris un’ Wiene, in which the Jewish community of Venice is criticised for being closed and inhospitable.

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This theory is undoubtedly fascinating, but I think it would be impossible to include Elye Bokher’s song in a list of popular works tout court. It might be possible to describe him as an individual who stayed in the margins and kept his distance from religious Jewish institutions, a restless intellectual during a time of social transformation in Europe, who was in some ways able, at least in the latter part of his life, to enjoy a kind of relative freedom, moving from teaching Hebrew to Christians to writing and printing in Hebrew and Yiddish. Nonetheless, the fact remains that he cannot be regarded as someone from the lower echelons of the Jewish community. From these observations, it follows that the definition of Hamavdil-lid as a pasquinata is not entirely satisfactory; pasquinate are usually brief compositions, for the most part sonnets,54 and as a rule they have a clearly political component, attacking the pope and clergymen, for example. This genre influenced Elye Bokher’s Hamavdil, and similar texts probably existed in Yiddish, if we take into consideration the etymology of katoves given by the same Elye Bokher. The term can be found in many other texts of the same period. By way of example, Erika Timm and Gustav Adolf Beckmann point to the Sefer Middot, a book of Musar (ethics) printed in Isny 1542 but already known as a manuscript in Italy before 1598),55 where we read that young people lachen un’ treiben katoves in der schul, “laugh and makes katoves in the synagogue,” behaviour that is considered a serious sin.56 Timm and Beckmann significantly broaden our understanding of the term katoves.57 After a first part dedicated to the possible etymologies, and to Hebrew and Yiddish sources, we learn that the term Spass was popular at the time among two groups in traditional Ashkenazi society: the jesters, and young people in general.58 The term might be connected to the

54 See V. Marucci, A. Marzo and A. Romano (eds.), Pasquinate romane del Cinquecento, pres. di G. Aquilecchia, 2 vols. (Rome 1983) and the review of this book: M. Firpo, “Pasquinate romane del Cinquecento,” Rivista Storica Italiana, XCVI/2 (1984), pp. 600–621. See also P. Orvieto and L. Brestolini, La poesia comico-realistica. Dalle origini al Cinquecento (Rome 2000), in particular ch. 14, “Ancora la poesia del vituperio. Pasquino, statua di marmo e di ‘malabocca.’ La polemica letteraria,” pp. 239–256. 55 See Turniansky and Timm, Yiddish in Italia, N. 43, pp. 88–90. 56 Timm and Beckmann, Etymologische Studien, p. 85. 57 Ibid., pp. 75–99. 58 “Der Begriff ‘Spaß’ muß in der traditionellen aschkenazischen Gesellschaft besonders wichtig für zwei gesellschaftliche Gruppen gewesen sein, nämlich für berufliche oder dilettierende Spaßmacher, speziell aus Feiern, und zweitens für Jugendliche allgemein” (Timm and Beckmann, Etymologische Studien, p. 83).



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German Jux, “amusement, joke, jest,” from the Latin iocus, attested also with the meaning of “witticism, obscene song of victory, invective ad personam, verses told at peasants’ parties or at marriages.”59 One might conclude, therefore, that whether or not Hillel Cohen, the impotent rascal, existed, Hamavdil-lid is first of all a cleverly written parody that fits into the tradition of medieval parodies of sacred texts.60 This tradition is well attested in the Jewish literature of the period, especially in relation to Purim and Hanukka,61 as well as in non-Jewish European literature;62 it produced examples of comicità erudito-plebea,63 works in which there is a continuous intertextual alternation between literate and popular modes, the kind of interplay that prompts literate laughter as readers recognise the references in the transgressive text, which reproduces a skewed version of lines from the official sacred canon.64 In addition, a striking realism, together with everyday details of Jewish life, contributes unusual insights into the world of Venetian Jews at the beginning of the 16th century. In particular, the female body is portrayed in unabashed, intimate detail, and marriage is presented as potentially perilous for women, rather than for men. Furthermore, it should be noted that at the beginning of the song, Hillel Cohen is also accused of having squandered all his money to gorge himself, his mouth never rests the whole day (Cambridge, stanza 4). Gluttony, as for Margutte in Pulci’s Morgante, and in so much of the literature of the period, is no less a sin 59 Thesaurus linguae latinae (Leipzig 1900), repr. on CD (Munich 2003), VII/2, fasc. II, columns 286–287, quoted on pp. 86–88 and 95–96. 60 This is also the conclusion of Evi Butzer, who suggests that these songs by Elye Bokher should be seen as parodies or (Purim-)Parodien. See E. Butzer, Die Anfänge der jiddischen purim shpiln in ihrem literarischen und kulturgeschichtlichen Kontext (Hamburg 2003), pp. 137–145. Purim is mentioned in Sreyfe-lid, and not in Hamavdil-lid, but one can assume it represents the general framework of both songs. The subject is too long and complex to be explored here. 61 See in particular the classic study by I. Davidson, Parody in Jewish Literature (New York 1907). 62 The bibliography on parody is vast. See especially G. Genette, Palimpsestes. La littérature au second degré (Paris 1982) and G. Gorni and S. Longhi, “La parodia,” in Letteratura italiana, diretta da A. Rosa, V, Le Questioni (Turin 1986), pp. 459–487. 63 This phrase comes from G. Contini, “Saggio introduttivo,” C.E. Gadda, La cognizione del dolore (Turin 1963), p. 11, reprinted with the title “Introduzione alla ‘Cognizione del dolore,’ ” Quarant’anni d’amicizia. Scritti su Carlo Emilio Gadda (1934–1988) (Turin 1989), pp. 15–35, especially p. 19. See also M. Corti, “Modelli e antimodelli nella cultura medievale,” Strumenti critici, XII/1 (February 1978), pp. 3–30; C. Segre, “La tradizione macaronica da Folengo a Gadda (e oltre),” in Cultura e tradizione popolare in Teofilo Folengo. Atti del Convegno Mantova, 15–17 October 1977, E. Bonora and M. Chiesa (eds.) (Milan 1979), pp. 62–74. 64 I am freely quoting from Gorni and Longhi, “La parodia,” p. 460.

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than is his immoral behaviour with women (and animals and children). The impression is that in these kinds of literary parodic representations, we recognise medieval, carnivalesque perceptions of the human body that are surprisingly liberal, even though they are to be found in a framework that includes halakhic rules; this situation will change in the second half of the 16th century, under pressure from the Counter-Reformation and the influence of widely diffused kabbalistic theories.65 As I mentioned earlier, one of the manuscripts in which Hamavdil-lid has been preserved is a miscellanea, now in Oxford, commissioned as a gift from a father to his young daughter on the occasion of her marriage. In Nokhum Shtif’s introduction to his edition, he is struck by the fact that the song formed part of a collection that included texts specifically relating to the religious life of Jewish women.66 If we piece together the literary habits of Ashkenazi women in Italy during the Renaissance, we discover that the picture is not at all monolithic. In this manuscript, in fact, we find Minhagim and Frauen-bikhlen, texts that were very common in Yiddish in the 15th century and thereafter, and were intended to teach women how to conduct themselves and how to keep the precepts in all aspects of everyday life. There are also translations into Yiddish of books from the Bible, as well as mayses, bilingual songs, poetic contests, riddles, and kalelider or songs for the bride, all of which are apparently meant to serve as literature for entertainment, although always in a Jewish framework. Even though the majority of Yiddish books of that period comprise texts relating to religious life, it has to be acknowledged that literary and humouristic texts also had their place in the reading matter of Ashkenazi Jews. Further evidence of this can be found in the introduction written in 1555 by Gumprecht von Szczebrszyn, an Ashkenazi Jew living in Italy, for his songs about Hanukka and Purim. Here he claims that devout women and girls can read his songs without any fear of encountering an obscene expression, kein unzükhtig wort, as often occurs in Yiddish books.67 Such a 65 See R. Weinstein, “The Rise of the Body in Early Modern Jewish Society: The Italian Case Study,” in The Jewish Body, pp. 15–55, and in particular, p. 33: “The change in the relation to the body was not confined to cultural images and/or representations, but extended to social praxis. The direction of change, very much like in non-Jewish urban society in Italy during the sixteenth and seventeenth century, was the intention to shape the human body and bodily behavior in a more refined and controlled manner [. . .] and the accompanying sentiments of timidity, shame, and restraint.” 66 Shtif, Naye materialn, pp. 154–155. 67 M. Stern (ed.), Lieder des venezianischen Lehrers Gumprecht von Szczebrszyn (um 1555) (Berlin 1922), p. 1, vv. 6–8.



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statement hints at the existence of Yiddish texts that were daring, vulgar, and humourous, allowing us to advance the hypothesis that the presence of such a “free” text in a manuscript intended, as here, as a wedding gift, could also have had the apotropaic purpose of dispelling, through ridicule, the anxieties that accompanied the beginning of marital relations. This was also the role—usually undertaken in a more restrained way—of the genre of the kale-lider, songs for the bride that were very widespread in Yiddish literature, and also well attested in general 16th-century Italian literature. I believe, therefore, that we have evidence here of the diversified culture of a refined poet who absorbed the medieval tradition; this tradition would continue to bear fruit in European literature for centuries among intellectuals, clergymen, students, and even jounglers, who absorbed popular modes and introduced them into the established culture. This practice comes as no surprise, since transgressions with regard to the general cultural model are often produced within the same culture that generated the model,68 and moreover, they often confirm it. This is Gurevich’s view in his important rereading of Bakhtin’s theories on the Carneval: “The drunken whore playing the role of the Virgin, the fool in place of the bishop, the criminal on the throne, the ass in the church, blasphemies, the drunken liturgy—all these inversions of ‘serious’ religion and its rituals by no means ignore or deny the dominant religious culture; they rather proceed from it, in them they find their rules and eventually in their own way they sanction it.”69 I believe this was the medieval background that was familiar to Elye Bokher and which underpins his writings; these must have had their place in the official corpus and can be understood only within this constant interaction between popular and learned comicality on one hand, and holy texts on the other.

68 “Le trasgressioni nei riguardi del modello culturale generale si producono all’interno stesso della cultura che ha generato il modello” (M. Corti, “Modelli,” p. 16). 69 The quotation is taken from A.J. Gurevich, Medieval Popular Culture: Problems of Belief and Perception, J.M. Bak and P.A. Hollingworth (transl.) (Cambridge 1988), pp. 179– 180, which is as follows: “The drunken whore playing the role of the Virgin, the fool in place of the bishop, the criminal on the throne, the ass in the church, the drunken liturgy—all these inversions of ‘serious’ religion and its rituals by no means ignored or denied the dominant religious culture; they rather proceeded from it.” I have adjusted the translation in light of the Italian version, which is slightly different. See A.J. Gurevich, Contadini e santi. Problemi della cultura popolare nel Medioevo, L. Montagnani (transl.) (Turin 1986 and 2000) (originally entitled Problemmy srednevkovoj narodnoj kul’tury [Moscow 1981], p. 283).

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The fact that literature for entertainment had a secondary, but significant, place is also confirmed by the list of the books owned by the Jews of Mantua and submitted to the censors in 1595; these were studied by Prof. Simonsohn in 1962.70 In all, 256 books in Yiddish are mentioned, notably translations of the Pentateuch.71 Together with other religious books, these represent 77 percent of all volumes: 15.6 percent are books of literature, 1.6 percent are songs, and 3.1 percent are other kinds of books.72 It is in Yiddish, the spoken and living language of Ashkenazi Jews, that we find both reworkings and volgarizzamenti of the Bible, together with books of Minhagim and Musar, on the one hand, and on the other, chivalric poems, novelle, and poetry, born of contact with the external world. It is in Yiddish, then, that we find a greater freedom than is generally the case in Hebrew writings in an Ashkenazi context. It is easy to imagine Elye Bokher’s songs finding their place in this context, in a world where, to borrow Bonfil’s words, “they did not make an absolutely antithetical distinction between the sacred and the profane in everyday life.”73 Moreover, the Middle Ages and the Renaissance were periods in which a great variety of comic genres were sustained and developed in Italy, from the commedia to the novella and parody, in both literary and court circles, as well as at the popular level. The breadth and the flexible limits of the humour are striking, reminding us of the difference between Italian

70 See S. Simonsohn, “Books and Libraries of Mantuan Jews, 1595,” Kirjath Sepher, 37 (1962), pp. 103–122 [Hebrew]; A. Romer-Segal, “Sifrut Yiddish weqahal qoreha bemeah XVI—Yetzirot beYiddish bereshimot ha’ziquq’ miMantova, 1595,” Kirjath Sepher, 53 (1978), pp. 779–790 [Hebrew]; R. Bonfil, “Le biblioteche degli ebrei d’Italia nel Rinascimento,” Manoscritti, frammenti e libri ebraici nell’Italia dei secoli XV–XVI, Atti del VII Congresso internazionale dell’AISG, S. Miniato, 7–8–9 novembre 1988, G. Tamani e A. Vivian (eds.) (Rome 1991), pp. 137–150; S. Baruchson, Books and Readers. The Reading Interests of Italian Jews at the Close of the Renaissance (Jerusalem 1993) [Hebrew]; trad. fr.: La culture livresque des juifs d’Italie à la fin de la Renaissance, traduit de l’hébreu par G. Roth (Paris 2001); Turniansky and Timm, Yiddish in Italia, pp. 163–165 (N. 82). For a general introduction to reading habits in the Jewish world during the Renaissance, see R. Bonfil, “Reading in the Jewish Communities of Western Europe in the Middle Ages,” in G. Cavallo and R. Chartier (eds.), A History of Reading in the West, translated by L.G. Cochrane (Amherst 1999), pp. 149–178 [original Italian title: R. Bonfil, “La lettura nelle comunità ebraiche dell’Europa occidentale in età medievale,” in Storia della lettura nel mondo occidentale, G. Cavallo and R. Chartier (eds.) (Bari 1995), pp. 155–197]. 71  Romer-Segal, Sifrut Yiddish weqahal qoreha, p. 781. 72 Romer-Segal, Sifrut Yiddish weqahal qoreha, p. 785. 73 R. Bonfil, Jewish Life in Renaissance Italy, A. Oldcorn (transl.) (Los Angeles-London 1994), p. 225 (original Italian title: Gli ebrei in Italia nell’epoca del Rinascimento [Florence 1991]).



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culture in the first half of the 16th century, and its increasingly restricted manifestation in the second half.74 The Hamavdil-lid, together with the Sreyfe-lid, is the result of manifold traditions and may well have belonged to a literary system that was broader than we imagine. It is only by taking into account all the Jewish literature of the period, including the extant Yiddish texts, that we can hope to construct a comprehensive picture of Jewish life. What I have presented here is only the beginning of a work in progress, but I hope to have conveyed at least some of the abundance and relevance of Yiddish sources that are vital for a comprehensive understanding of the history and the literature of Italian Jews during the Renaissance.

74 “The Counter-Reformation clergy had embarked upon a ‘cultural offensive’, not to ban joking altogether but to reduce its domain. [. . .] What we find in the period 1550–1650 in particular are increasing restrictions on the public participation of clergy, women, or gentlemen in certain kinds of joke, a reduction of comic domains, occasions, and locales; a raising of the threshold; an increase in the policing of the frontiers.” P. Burke, “Frontiers of the Comic in Early Modern Italy,” in Varieties of Cultural History (Cambridge 1997), pp. 77–93, especially pp. 89–93.

A Matter of Quotation: Dante and the Literary Identity of Jews in Italy1 Asher Salah Introduction The concept of Italian literature is one of many traditions retroactively invented in modern times, in particular following the rise of European national movements. An independent Italian state has existed only since the second half of the 19th century, and the very concept of a national Italian literature found one of its first proponents in Girolamo Tiraboschi’s 16-volume Storia della letteratura italiana (Modena, 1772–82).2 It is therefore hardly surprising to find, at the turn of the 18th century, a similar drive among the Jews to define the Italian character of their literary history.3 The most mature and complete expressions of this national interpretation of Italian Jewish literary output are Moritz Steinschneider’s essays, published in instalments under the title “Die Italienische Litteratur der Juden,” Monatschrift für Geschichte und Wissenschaft des Judentums 42 (1898); 43 (1899); 44 (1900).4

1 I would like to express my gratitude to Alessandro Grazi, Alessandro Guetta, Ariel Rathaus, Giuseppe Veltri, Ariel Viterbo, and Nadia Zeldes for their invaluable remarks. I had the pleasure of discussing with them some aspects of the subject of this article. 2 Even before Tiraboschi’s monumental enterprise, there are many signs of the emergence of the idea of a national literary identity. Among earlier examples: in 1698, Giovanni Maria Crescimbeni publishes the first edition of his Istoria della volgar poesia; in 1723, Giacinto Gimma writes a book significantly entitled Idea della storia dell’Italia Letterata, and that same year, L.A. Muratori begins publishing his Rerum italicarum scriptores (Milan 1723–38). Nevertheless, Tiraboschi is the first who tries to define the boundaries and character of Italian literature. In fact, he sees Petrarch, not Dante, as the true beginning of the “renaissance” of Italian letters, but dedicates to Dante the most significant part of his work. Interestingly enough, Tiraboschi is also one of the first Christian authors to include Jewish writers (among others Leone Ebreo, Abramo Colorni, David d’Ascoli, David de Pomis) in his literary history of Italy. 3 For instance, in the parts of the Grammatica ebraica (Trieste 1799) by Shmuel Romanelli, dedicated to the literary history of the Jews in Italy, and in the Saggio di eloquenza ebrea (Reggio 1809) by Hanania Coen. The poetic florilegium of Avraham Piperno’s Qol Ugav (Leghorn 1846) also illustrates the conception of a particular Italian tradition inside Hebrew literature. 4 An earlier and shorter version of this work was published as a book in Italian under the title Letteratura Italiana dei Giudei (Rome 1884). Other examples of the national

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Nevertheless, among Christian elites and, to some extent among the Jewish ones as well,5 the consciousness and pride of belonging to a common cultural realm, despite political divisions and different ethnic origins, can be traced back to the late Middle Ages and expresses itself in the canonisation of Dante, Petrarch, and Boccaccio during the Renaissance. The works of these authors, also known as the “three crowns” of Italian literature, became an inspiration for Jews and Christians alike, writing in Italian, Latin, and Hebrew. We must bear in mind the fact that Italy is one of the few European countries where the birth of the national language predates by many centuries the establishment of the national state. In this context, Dante is usually considered to be not only the spiritual father of literature written in Volgar lingua, i.e., Italian vernacular but also of Italians themselves. Dante’s reception among the Jews in Italy is an interesting vehicle for understanding how they conceived of themselves as both Jews and as Italians. To avoid any misunderstanding, I would like to stress that I am not interested in the objective nature of the Judeo-Italian symbiosis, but rather in how the idea of the Italian character of Jewish literature was shaped in different times and what purposes it served. Much has yet to be done in order to define precisely the semantic field, in different periods and places, of terms such as “italiano,” “Italqi,” “loazi,” “romi” and others that connote ethnic, linguistic, national, and religious affiliation. But a first step in this direction can be made, while dealing with the literary field of the Italian Jews in its relation to the general literature of the peninsula, through the case study of Dante’s reception among the Jews. I will not address the question of whether Jews in Italy read Dante—we know that some of them did—or to what extent they were acquainted with non-Jewish Italian texts—we should know more about their reading habits and the sources they used in their works—but when they referred to Dante and why. To illustrate the complexity of this question, I will track Dante’s fortune among the Jews in Italy, from Immanuel Romano in the 14th century to the beginning of the 20th century. By doing so, it should be possible to perspective on the study of the literature of the Jews in Italy are Hananel Neppi and Mordekhai Ghirondi’s bibliographical dictionary, History of Israel’s Great Men (originally entitled Italy’s Great Men) (Trieste 1856) [Hebrew] and Marco Mortara’s Indice alfabetico di rabbini e scrittori israeliti di cose giudaiche in Italia (Padua 1886). 5 Cf. A. Rathaus, “Poetiques de l’école judeo-italienne,” Les Cahiers du Judaisme 22 (2007), pp. 68–82, who sees in the defense of Italian-Hebrew poets against Provencal and Spanish attacks the beginning of a local literary conscience.



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single out two different modes that Jews used in relating to non-Jewish literature: 1) differentiation from the majority culture, which mainly characterised the so-called Ghetto era, from the 16th to the 18th century, but can be actually traced back to the late Middle Ages, and 2) identification with the majority culture, which developed during the Emancipation, from the end of the 18th century until today. These two models can be helpful in analysing the radical change in the collective identity of the Jews in Italy before and after the Emancipation, as this distinct group negotiated its place within the larger socio-cultural matrix in which it operated. Although much has been written on the influence of Jewish culture on Dante’s work6 and a considerable bibliography exists on Hebrew versions of Dante’s Divina Commedia,7 I am less interested in establishing who had an influence on whom than in showing the intertextual practices of the Jews towards Dante in different contexts and periods.8 To do this, I collected three types of references to Dante: 1) direct quotations from Dante’s

6 U. Eco, Alla ricerca della lingua perfetta (Bari 1993), pp. 261–280 (also in Dall’albero al labirinto: studi storici sul segno e l’interpretazione (Milan 2007), was one of the first scholars to deal with the influence of Jewish mysticism on the development of the Dolce stil novo poetic school and to defend the possibility that on questions of language and divine names, Dante was indeed influenced by Jewish sources, and in particular by Abraham Abulafia. On this subject, see also G. Petrocchi, “Gli ebrei, Dante e Boccaccio,” in Aspetti e problemi della presenza ebraica nell’Italia centro-settentrionale (secoli XIV e XV ), S. Boesch Gajano (ed.) (Rome 1983), pp. 343–359; B. Chiesa, “Dante e la cultura ebraica del Trecento,” Henoch 23, 2–3 (2001) pp. 325–342; G. Battistoni, Dante, Verona e la cultura ebraica (Florence 2004); S. Debenedetti Stow, Dante e la mistica ebraica (Florence 2004). 7 On imitations of Dante in Hebrew, cf. Joseph Sermoneta, “Dante,” Encyclopaedia Judaica (1971). On Hebrew translations of Dante: Alberto Soggin, “Dante tradotto in ebraico moderno,” in L’Opera di Dante nel mondo: edizioni e traduzioni nel Novecento; Atti del convegno internazionale di studi, Roma, 27–29 aprile 1989, E. Esposito (ed.) (Ravenna 1992), pp. 255–256. On Dante’s influence on Hebrew prosody, cf. D. Bregman The Golden Way: The Hebrew Sonnet During the Renaissance and the Baroque, A. Brener (transl.) (Tempe 2006); D. Fishlov, “MiTofet shel Dante el HaTofet shel Immanuel: LiVhinat Maamado shel Maase HaYezira HaLeshonit be Mahbarot,” [Hebrew] Bikkoret Ufarshanut 27 (1991), pp. 19–42 [Hebrew]; E. Kahanov, “HaTofet VeHaEden LeImmanuel HaRomi, kefi sheHi Mitpareshet al Yedei HaKomedia HaElhoit leDante,” Maof Umaase 6 (2000), pp. 31–43 [Hebrew]; A. Belli, “Sulla formazione dell’endecasillabo ebraico in Italia: Immanuel Romano,” Rassegna Mensile di Israel 36 (1970), pp. 51–58; Genot Bismuth, “La revolution prosodique d’Immanuel de Rome,” Israel Oriental Studies 11 (1991), pp. 161–186. A vast literature exists on Dante and Immanuel’s relationship, and we will deal with it in the following pages. 8 Concerning the shortcomings of research that only emphasises possible influences, see D. Landau, “Vi è un’influenza della poesia ebraica sulla poesia italiana?” in Appartenenza e differenza: ebrei d’Italia e letteratura, J. Hassine, J. Misan-Montefiore, S. Debenetti Stow (eds.) (Florence 1998), pp. 11–21 and B. Chiesa, “Dante e la cultura ebraica del Trecento,” Henoch 23, 2–3 (2001) pp. 325–342.

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works or mentions of his name by Jewish authors; 2) partial or complete translations of Dante’s works into Hebrew; and 3) paraphrases or revisions of Dante’s works, in Hebrew as well as Italian or Judeo-Italian. Obviously, in research covering some seven centuries of history, I do not have any pretension of having been able to find all the references related to my subject, but I hope to have been able to isolate some convincing general trends. Before Emancipation (14th to 18th Centuries) The first conclusion to draw about the four centuries preceding Emancipation is that direct or indirect references to Dante’s work by Jewish Italian authors are extremely rare. This remark contradicts what is usually claimed with regard to Dante’s influence in Hebrew literature. Let us quote only two prestigious scholars from the past century. Joseph Sermoneta, in his article on Dante for the Encyclopaedia Judaica, writes in 1971 “like Petrarch, Dante was widely quoted by Italian rabbis of the Renaissance in their sermons.” The same is repeated a few years later by Moshe Shulvass, in his classic book on the Renaissance and the Jews: “The greatest influence upon Hebrew literature was exercised by Dante.”9 Little evidence has been provided to support this claim, and, at least as far as Italian-Jewish preaching is concerned, Marc Saperstein disparaged it as “extravagant.”10 Even in works on rhetoric and style written by Italian Jews, such as the tractates by Judah Messer Leon, Samuele Archivolti, David Del Bene, or Immanuel Frances, no quotation or reference to Dante is to be found. Of course one can use or be inspired by Dante’s works without necessarily acknowledging it. This is particularly true in an age where there was not a clear consciousness of intellectual property. Nevertheless, I believe that even implicit intertextual relationships between Jewish literary texts written before the 18th century and Dante are not only extremely difficult to prove but are in most cases either nonexistent or deliberately hidden. In order to prove this claim, it is necessary to refer to those primary Hebrew works that historians and scholars in the 19th and 20th centuries have

9 M. Shulvass, The Jews in the World of the Renaissance (Leiden 1973), p. 219. 10 M. Saperstein, “Italian Jewish Preaching: An Overview,” in Preachers of the Italian Ghetto, D. Ruderman (ed.) (Berkeley 1992), p. 27.



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described as containing Dantean elements, and examine the evidence adduced. A list of these works can be found in Table 1. Seven works are not persuasive and should induce us to be more cautious before detecting reminiscences of Dante in overall Hebrew literature. Moreover, even in the aforementioned works, Dante’s influence is far from being unquestionable and manifest. Not every vision of the other world necessarily betrays a link to the Divina Commedia, nor is every poet who composes terzine paying tribute to Dante. The authors on my list may well have been inspired by different literary models of visions and supernatural travels found in rabbinic literature. These models predate by many centuries Dante’s work and they are likely to have influenced it as well.11 In six of these eight works, Dante’s footprint is more than dubious. The ‫( תפתה ערוך‬Tofteh Arukh) (Hell Outspread) by Moshe Zacut (c. 1620–1698), first published in Venice in 1715, and its sequel, the ‫( גן עדן ערוך‬Gan Eden Arukh) (Paradise Outspread) (Venice, 1741) composed by Yaaqov Olmo (c. 1690–1757), are primarily liturgical poems concerning the world to come, the first located in hell, the second in paradise. Although they are separate works, the two poems have usually been published together since their second edition (Venice, 1743), showing that the tendency to reconstruct an oeuvre similar to Dante’s Commedia was in the mind of later readers rather than a goal of the authors themselves. In fact, the influence of Dante on Zacut and Olmo, whose works are based on Talmudic, midrashic, and kabbalistic literature and are full of Table 1. Hebrew Works Supposedly Inspired by Dante’s Divina Commedia Mahbaret HaTofet VeHaEden, Immanuel Romano (1321, according to Cecil B. Roth) (Brescia, 1470, first ed.) Mahberet Ha-Tene, Ahituv of Palermo (14th century) Miqdash Me’at, Moshe da Rieti (1415) (Vienna, 1851, first ed.) Shir Shabbat, Mordekhai Dato (1525–1591?) (first ed. by Cecil Roth, “Un Hymne sabbatique du XVI siecle en judeo-italien,” Revue d’Etudes Juives 80 (1925), pp. 60–80; 182–206; 81 (1925), pp. 55–78) Ktav Al Qedoshim, anonymous (after 1556) (first ed. by David Kaufmann, “Les 24 martyrs d’Ancone,” Revue d’Etudes Juives 31 (1895), pp. 222–230) Gei Hizzayon, Abraham Yagel (1587–88) (Alexandria, 1880, first ed.) Tofteh Arukh, Moses Zacut (c. 1620–1698) (Venice, 1715, first ed.) Eden Arukh, Yaaqov Olmo (c. 1690–1757) (Venice, 1741, first ed.) 11 M. Asín Palacios in his controversial work, Dante y el Islam (Madrid 1927), argues in favour of the influence exerted on Dante by the Islamic literature of otherworldly travels, a model that could have been used as well by Jewish authors dealing with similar themes.

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mystical references—mainly from the Zohar, the medieval ‫מסכת גן עדן‬ ‫( וגיהינום‬Masekhet Gan Eden VeGehinom) (Tractate of the Garden of Eden and Gehenna) and ‫( מעשה דרבי יהושע בן לוי‬Ma’aseh de-Rabbi Yehoshua’ ben Lewi) (The legend of Rabbi Joshua ben Levi)—can be dismissed as almost irrelevant, save for their recourse to a supernatural and imaginary travel through Hell and Paradise. The Tofteh Arukh was conceived as a theatrical drama, likely with an anti-Sabbatean message; the structure of the seven circles of Hell and Paradise, not nine as in the Divine Comedy, follows the Zohar, while the narration of otherworldly travel is attributed to a dead soul (probably identified with the biblical Ahav, certainly not the author, as in Dante’s Commedia). Besides these substantive differences in structure, genre, and argument, let us not forget that Zacut’s Tofte is only 184 sextains long and Olmo’s Gan Eden Arukh 277, nothing comparable to the dimension and length of Dante’s poetical vision of afterlife, with its 14,233 verses. The ‫( גיא חזיון‬Gei Ḥizzayon) (A valley of vision) by Abraham Yagel (1553–1623) is the recounting of a dream in which the author narrates the events of his life to his deceased father. The only possible similarity to Dante’s Commedia is the celestial ascension which Yagel experiences in his vision, but in the form more reminiscent of the Hekhalot genre of the early Middle Ages than the Christian theological structure of the other world. Instead of a nonexistent, direct inspiration to Dante, David Ruderman in his English edition of Gei Hizzayon has convincingly depicted Italian influences on Yagel other than Dante’s, such as Piacevol Notte et Lieto Giorno (Pleasant night and joyful day), the collection of novels by Nicolao Granucci, a late 16th-century author, and stressed the intertextual relations with the works of Boetius.12 The anonymous elegy for the Ancona martyrs, published by David Kaufmann,13 and the liturgical Shabbat poem by Mordekhai Dato, in which Cecil Roth perceives a Dantesque tonality,14 belong to a literary

12 D. Ruderman, A Valley of Vision: The Heavenly Journey of Abraham ben Hananiah Yagel (Philadelphia 1990), p. 23, quotes J. Dan, who in his HaSippur Haivri Bymei HaBeinaim (Jerusalem 1974), p. 205 [Hebrew], writes “his book is embedded in an ancient Jewish tradition and independent of the influence of the great Italian author [Dante].” 13 D. Kaufmann, “Les 24 martyrs d’Ancone,” Revue des Ètudes Juives 31 (1895), pp. 222–230. C. Roth, in the article mentioned in the next note, also sees in this text a semiDantesque inspiration. 14 C. Roth, “Un Hymne sabbatique du XVI siècle en judeo-italien,” Revue des Ètudes Juives 80 (1925), pp. 60–80; 182–206; 81 (1925), pp. 55–78. The same Dantesque tonality is also perceived by G. Tamani, “Parafrasi e componimenti in volgare e in ebraico di



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tradition and genre, the penitential prayer, that goes back to late antiquity and has little in common with the Divina Commedia. Lastly, as far as the ‫( מחברת הטנא‬Mahberet HaTeneh) (Composition of the basket) is concerned, it has yet to be determined whether it was written before or shortly after the Divine Comedy.15 It is clear, however, that the differences between Ahitub from Palermo and Dante’s work are considerable, and not only in their dimensions. The only works where Dante’s influence is undeniable are in fact ‫( מחברות‬Mahberot) (Compositions) by Immanuel Romano (1261–1332), a poet also known in Italian as Manoello Giudeo, who describes his soul’s imaginary travel through Hell and Paradise in the last of his 28 compositions, and to a lesser extent Moshe da Rieti’s (1388–c. 1460) ‫מקדש מעט‬ (Miqdash Me’at) (Little temple), an encyclopaedic poem with no narrative continuity, which follows the structure of the Temple of Jerusalem. The bibliography on these two authors is considerable and there is hardly any scholar who does not mention in one way or another their dependence on Dante.16 But the ideological differences between these works and the Divina Commedia are not to be obscured by their formal similarities. The importance of the Divina Commedia lies, as Hegel points out in the Aesthetics,17 in the fact that it furnishes Dante’s contemporaries with

Mordekhai Dato,” Italia Judaica II (1984), p. 238, where he argues that in the text “abbondano i riferimenti a Dante, soprattutto nella descrizione dell’Eden.” 15 It is again Cecil Roth, in The History of the Jews in Italy (Philadelphia 1946), p. 146, who describes this work as being influenced by Dante, without bringing any substantial evidence besides a superficial thematic similarity: “The Mahberet ha-Teneh (Composition of the basket) embodies another vision of the future life which may also be inspired by Dante and sometimes reaches a high imaginative level.” 16 On Immanuel, whose account of the afterworld is available in a prose translation into English by Hermann Golancz, Tophet and Eden: Hell and Paradise (London 1921), let us just mention, besides the works that are quoted in the course of this essay, J. Chotzner, “Immanuel di Roma: a Thirteenth Century Hebrew Poet and Novelist,” The Jewish Quarterly Review OS 4 (1891), pp. 64–89; H.S. Lewis, “Immanuel of Rome,” Proceedings of the American Academy for Jewish Research 6 (1934–35), pp. 277–308; J. Genot-Bismuth, “La révolution prosodique d’Immanuel de Rome: signification de l’introduction du sonnet,” Israel Oriental Studies 11 (1991), pp. 161–186; E. de la Peña, “Manuel, el hermano judío de Dante,” Humanismo y cultura judía (1999), pp. 53–55; J. Adler, “Immanuel of Rome,” Midstream 48,2 (2002), pp. 16–19. On da Rieti, see A. Guetta, “Moses da Rieti and his Miqdash Meat,” Prooftexts 23,1 (2003), pp. 4–17 and “Renaissance et culture juive: le cas de Moshe ben Yitzhaq de Rieti,” Tsafon 48 (2004–2005), pp. 43–57; G. Veltri, “L’anima del passato: studi e testi recenti, Azaria de Rossi, Moshe da Rieti e Sara Copio Sullam,” Henoch 26,2 (2004), pp. 210–223. 17 G. Hegel, “The Most Solid and the Richest Work in this Sphere, the Artistic Epic Proper to the Christian Catholic Middle Ages,” in Aesthetics: Lectures on Fine Arts (Oxford 1975), p. 1103.

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a Christian epic that succeeds in solving the contrast between the classic pagan world, courtly literature, and Christianity. For Jews such as Immanuel Romano and Moshe da Rieti, the contrast is less between the classical heritage and Judaism than between Judaism and courtly literature on the one hand, and Judaism and Christianity on the other. The gap to courtly tradition can be easily bridged through rhetorical and stylistic adaptations. Therefore, Immanuel and da Rieti’s original contributions to Hebrew literature manifest themselves in the introduction of new literary techniques (such as the sonnet in Immanuel’s case and, in da Rieti’s, the Terza Rima) and motives of courtly literature, forms, and themes that Dante used but did not invent.18 However, as far as the contrast with Christian heritage goes, neither Immanuel nor da Rieti make any effort to merge Jewish tradition with the heritage of non-Jewish sources from antiquity and the Middle Ages. On the contrary, Christian culture is precisely the antithetical other that these poets try to surpass and suppress in their literary endeavour. If Dante is led in his otherworldly travel by Virgil (representing the classical culture), Sordello (representing courtly literature), and Beatrice (representing Christian theology), Immanuel has only one companion, Daniel, a prophetic figure in biblical attire. The same can be said for da Rieti, who is guided through Paradise by his father and teacher, again a figure who stresses continuity inside a self-referential Jewish universe. It is true—quoting Wout van Bekkum—that “Dante’s immensely popular poetry had attracted the attention of many Jews who increasingly aspired to more participation in general life.”19 Nevertheless, it is important to keep in mind that this participation did not eradicate the borders between Jewish and Christian culture, but rather was instrumental in emphasising their differences, or at least what was perceived to be different in the two religious contexts. In line with Bonfil’s underscoring of the autonomy of Jewish culture in shaping its own intellectual environment, I would therefore insist on the fact that what characterises Italian Judaism in the early modern period is not so much the openness to external influences, a quite obvious observation since no minority society can be

18 D. Bregman, “The Style and Prosody of Miqdash Me’at,” Prooftexts 23 (2003), pp. 18–24. 19 W. van Bekkum, “The Emperor of Poets: Immanuel of Rome (1261–1332),” in Studies in Hebrew Literature and Jewish Culture Presented to Albert van der Heide on the Occasion of His Sixty-Fifth Birthday, M. Baasten and R. Munk (eds.) (Dordrecht 2007), p. 203.



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completely impermeable to the surrounding culture and values, but rather their original cultural reworking in a specifically Jewish frame. Bonfil writes that “the modern reader, who has less difficulty recognising the features in common with the Italian production of the time from those that derive from the Hebrew tradition, is not aware of any tension between the two elements (Christian and Jewish). On the contrary, it is precisely these additional Hebrew levels of meaning that give Immanuel’s work greater complexity and richness than that of the majority of his Christian contemporaries.”20 This can only result, again in Bonfil’s words, in an “absolute and essential structural opposition between the two societies . . . Christian society, actually, simply does not exist as an object of social and cultural interest for the Jews.”21 The corollary of such a strategy of cultural differentiation is that everything that was not deemed worthy of being represented within a Jewish context was eliminated or belittled. It is therefore not surprising that Immanuel neither quotes directly from Dante’s works nor mentions his name in any of his writings, not even in the ‫( מחברת החשק‬Mahberet HaHesheq) (Composition of desire), the third of his twenty-eight Mahbarot, heavily reminiscent of Dante’s Vita Nova, while reserving a seat of honour for Yehudah Al-Harizi in his Paradise as his poetic ancestor. Furthermore, da Rieti, when he writes that “I saw that the Christian Nation has a book laden with imagination [dimioniot],” while indirectly acknowledging his debt to the Divina Commedia, is in fact denigrating it. This term “imagination” is essentially pejorative, implying false visions or hallucinations.22 Da Rieti and Immanuel rely on Dante only because they want to compete with his literary model and make it different. They can adopt prosodic innovations, even some metaphors, but they feel compelled to sever any explicit form of intertextual relation with it and to hide any other thematic and structural similarity by using an exclusively Jewish frame of reference. And this is quite easy since, as we have already seen, post-biblical and rabbinic literature does not lack models of allegorical travels in the other world. According to Schirmann, other 13th-century

20 R. Bonfil, Jewish Life in Renaissance Italy (Berkeley 1994), p. 155. 21 R. Bonfil, Tra due mondi: cultura cristiana e cultura ebraica nel Medioevo (Naples 1996), p. 265. 22 The criticism of works of imagination is reminiscent of Abraham Farissol, Igeret Orhot Olam, who counteracts such tendencies toward the literary works of non-Jews on the ground that they are lewd “fiction.”

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Italian Hebrew authors, such as the aforementioned Ahitub of Palermo and Biniamin Anav of Rome, could have served as a model for Immanuel’s vision of afterlife.23 Therefore, even if we agree to some extent on Dante’s influence in the aforementioned two works, what is worth noting is the reticence of these Jewish authors to quote explicitly from his works. In the course of this research, I was able to find only five pre-Emancipation Jewish authors in Italy who made direct reference to Dante: Yehuda Romano, Elija Hayyim ben Biniamin da Genazzano, Azaria de’ Rossi, Simone Luzzatto, and Sara Copia Sullam. It would be indeed interesting to integrate the following remarks with lists of non-Jewish authors—Petrarch, Boccaccio, Ariosto, and Marini, as well as Virgil and Boetius—cited by Jewish writers. Still, I believe that the conclusions of this essay on Dante’s reception among Jews in Italy can be extended to other figures in the history of classic and Italian literature who left their imprint in the literary tradition of the Jews. The Italian Jewish philosopher and translator Yehuda Romano (c. 1293– c. 1330), cousin of Immanuel, does not seem to have been very careful when quoting from Dante. In fact, his four excerpts of the Divina Commedia24—transliterated into the Hebrew alphabet in a manuscript of scholastic exercises and apparently quoted from memory since they differ slightly in wording from any of Dante’s known textus receptus—appear to illustrate a theological argument, the doctrine of providence and free will, whose real authorities are Egidium and Thomas.25 Elija Hayyim da Genazzano, in the first half of the 16th century, while paying tribute to Moshe da Rieti as the poet who introduced tercets to Hebrew literature, recognises that this would not have been possible without the example of Dante. In his poem against women, da Genazzano writes “‫אישא בישורון הרב משה‬ 23 “Zusammen mit dem “Traumgesicht im Tal der Offenbarung” von Binjamin ben Abraham Anav (Piattelli) aus Rom (um 1240) bildet sie die unmittelbare Vorstufe für die Maqamen Immanuel’s aus Rom (um 1300), der in seiner Dichtung ‘Hölle und Paradies’ das von den beiden Vorgängern angewandte Motiv der ‘Poetische Visionen’ weitergebildet hat,” J. Schirmann, “Zur Geschichte der hebräischen Poesie in Apulien und Sizilien,” Mitteilungen des Forschungsinstitut für hebräische Dichtung 1 (1933), p. 138. 24 Purgatorio XVI, 73–76; Paradiso, V, 73–85, XIII, 52–54 and XX, 49–54. 25 Joseph Sermonenta claims that these excerpts are not direct quotations but rather a translation into a Judaeo-Italian dialect, “Una trascrizione in caratteri ebraici di alcuni brani filosofici della Commedia,” Romanica et Occidentalia, Etudes dédiées à la mémoire de Hiram Peri (1963), pp. 23–42. The opposite view is held by Alan Freedman, who ascribes the distortions in Dante’s quotations to a misreading by later Jewish copyists of the original Giuda Romano manuscript, “Passages from the Divine Comedy in a FourteenthCentury Hebrew Manuscript,” in Collected Essays on Italian Language and Literature Presented to Kathleen Speight, G. Acquilecchia (ed.) (Manchester 1971), pp. 9–21.



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‫ חכם חרוזים הוא איש דנטי‬,‫ הנודע בכל דלתיים‬,‫( ”מריאטי‬the first among the Jews was Rabbi Moshe Da Rieti, known everywhere, but the master of verses was Dante).26 Azaria de Rossi (1513–1578), a physician from Mantua, does not quote verses from Dante,27 but he mentions Dante’s name explicitly, calling him Hakham Notzri (wise Christian) and HaMeshorer HaItalqi HaHakham (the wise Italian poet) on four occasions in which the exemplum of Dante is brought in order to enhance de Rossi’s philosophical arguments. In this context, Dante is not only praised for the beauty of his poetry but is ranked among the most important intellectual auctoritates used by de Rossi. De Rossi numbers Dante among the (few) me’amtim who assert the truth. A similar expression appears in the dedication of Simone Luzzatto’s Discorso, a work addressed to the lovers of truth “alli amatori della verità” that quotes extensively from Dante’s verses. In his Italian works, Luzzatto (1683–1663) quotes Dante three times in the Socrate (Venice, 1651)28 and twice in the Discorso circa il Stato de gl’Hebrei et in particolar dimoranti nell’inclita città di Venezia (Venice, 1638).29 It is interesting to note that, however important these quotations are in the development of Luzzatto’s dissertations, as has been convincingly demonstrated by Giuseppe Veltri in his studies,30 they appear in an apologetic context addressed to the intellectual and political Christian elites of Venice. The last example is a contemporary and countrywoman of Luzzatto in Venice, the poetess Sara Copia Sullam (1592–1641) who in her “controversy on the immortality of the Soul” quotes, or rather misquotes, the three opening verses of the Inferno to stigmatise the arrogance and foolishness of her rival Baldassare Bonifacio, again for a non-Jewish readership.31

26 Genazzano’s poem was first published by A. Neubauer, “Zur Frauenliteratur,” Israelitische Letterbode, X, XI (1885) and was studied by D. Pagis, “The Poetic Polemic on the Quality of Women—a Reflection of the Changes of Hebrew Poetry in Italy,” in A Word Fitly Spoken in Poetry (Jerusalem 1993), pp. 124–165 [Hebrew]. 27 Though he is making clear references to Inferno, XXXIV, 110–113, Purgatorio, II, 1–3, Paradiso, XXVI, 124–127 and XXIX, 19–36. Cf. index of sources in the English edition by J. Weinberg of Azaria’s Meor Einaim—The Light of the Eyes (New Haven 2001). 28 Purgatorio, III, 79–84 and IV, 1–6; Paradiso, IV, 1–6. 29 Purgatorio, XXV, 79–84 and 88–96. 30 See in particular chapter Two of G. Veltri, Renaissance Philosophy in Jewish Garb: Foundations and Challenges in Judaism on the Eve of Modernity (Leiden-Boston 2009), on the prophetic-poetic dimension of philosophy in the Ars Poetica of Immanuel of Rome. 31 D. Harran, Sarra Copia Sulam: Jewish Poet and Intellectual in 17th-Century Venice (Chicago 2009), p. 320.

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Still, these five examples are more the exception than the rule, and the rule reveals the embarrassment inherent in declaring one’s indebtedness towards an author not belonging to the Jewish canon. This cannot be attributed solely to different approaches toward intellectual property in the early modern period and today, since even by then, Jewish sources were quoted much more accurately and systematically than non-Jewish ones and Christian authors of the time copiously quoted Dante and his writings in almost every possible context. Moreover, with the exception of Yehuda Romano32 and Azaria de Rossi—himself an outstanding scholar but an exception in the Jewish Italian intellectual panorama of his time33—the quotations we are dealing with in this context are used as examples, rhetorical figures, or mere interruptions between two parts of a discourse. They never serve as an authoritative source to be quoted in favour or against a certain argument. Like beautiful illustrations, they adorn a text but do not in any way constitute an essential part of it.34 And lastly, in the cases of Simone Luzzatto and Sara Copia Sullam, references to Dante appear in works explicitly conceived for and addressed to nonJewish audiences. Luzzatto himself offers the key to understanding why a Jewish readership is a priori excluded in a work making extensive use of examples from general literature. The Jews, Luzzatto claims, do not manifest a special interest in belles lettres, preferring to cultivate only the three genres that are completely absent—et pour cause!—among their Christian neighbours: Talmud, rabbinic literature, and kabbalah. Only in this last sector of their literary activity are some similarities with Christians to be found, perhaps due to the common neo-platonic background of Jewish kabbalah and Christian philosophy. Nevertheless, this cannot challenge the basic fact that in Luzzatto’s eyes, the Jews—in letters as well as in politics—

32 Giuseppe Veltri explains the exceptionality of Yehuda Romano in the unique context of intellectual tolerance in the 14th century, a situation that changed radically less than one century later, when “Jewish compositions in Italian can no longer be seen as a profession of tolerance. They are composed as alternatives to Christian literary production,” G. Veltri, Renaissance Philosophy in Jewish Garb, cit., p. 48. 33 His work Meor Einaim was heavily criticised by his Jewish contemporaries precisely for its daring in using non-Jewish sources. Cf. R. Bonfil, “Some Reflections on the Place of Azariah de Rossi’s Meor Enayim in the Cultural Milieu of Italian Renaissance Jewry,” in Jewish Thought in the Sixteenth Century, B. Cooperman (ed.) (Cambridge 1983), pp. 23–43. 34 As argued by A. Viterbo, “Socrate nel ghetto: lo scetticismo mascherato di Simone Luzzatto,” Studi Veneziani 38 (1999), pp. 79–128.



a matter of quotation

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constituted what David Malkiel has called a “separate republic,” or at least they wanted to believe it is so.35 The walls of the ghetto did not prevent the Jews from being exposed to the influence of general literature, but the self-perception of their differences was the main cause of their incapacity or reluctance to recognise them explicitly, as I will try to expound at the end of this essay. In the light of what we have shown so far, it is possible to reach two conclusions. At first, it seems there is no reason to doubt that Jewish scholars had the same attitude towards Dante’s works as non-Jewish ones. From the scant evidence of only 13 excerpts of Dante’s Comedy quoted by Jewish authors, it appears that they did not differ from their Christian fellows in their predilection for Paradise over the Inferno.36 Although in the Romantic period, the latter was rehabilitated to the detriment of the former, until the 19th century, commentators on Dante saw in the third cantica the most sublime and inspired part of his poem. In the 14th and 15th centuries, initial interpretations of the Divine Comedy were divided between those who wanted it to be read as a theological allegory and demanded that it be interpreted in a way appropriate to sacred scripture, implying that it was written not according to the allegory of poets, who conceal the truth beneath a veil of fiction, but according to that of theologians, and those who saw the work as a prophetic vision of the afterlife. Da Rieti would belong to the first category and Immanuel to the second. But as the 14th century progressed, Dante’s renown declined among the humanists, who perceived him as a barbarian for his use of volgare instead of Latin, and for his scholastic culture; Petrarch unsurprisingly became the preferred poetic model for many Jewish authors as he had for their Christian contemporaries. In the 16th century, interest in Dante was mainly confined to his historical and philosophical value. That is certainly the case with Azaria de Rossi, who referred to Dante in his Me’or Einaim 35 David Malkiel, A Separate Republic: The Mechanics and Dynamics of Venetian Jewish Self-Government (1607–1624) (Jerusalem 1991). The concept of the Republic of the Letters appears in Jewish literary works only as a result of the Enlightenment, according to S. Feiner, Mahapekhat HaNeorut (Jerusalem 2002), pp. 212–214 [Hebrew]. A. Bar Levav, “Bein Todaat HaSifria LaRepublica HaSifrutit HaYehudit,” Sifriot VeOsfei Sefarim (Jerusalem 2006), p. 223 [Hebrew], tries to identify premonitory signals of this new conception of the literary field a few hundred years before the 18th century, but he agrees that the change in Hebrew literature from a religious orientation to a national orientation happens only at the turn of the 18th century, with the development of new literary languages such as Yiddish (and we could add here Italian as well). 36 Six quotations from the Paradise, five from the Purgatory and two from the Inferno.

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(Mantua, 1573–1575) in the context of historical-philosophical discussions and not for its intrinsic poetic value. In the 17th century, Dante’s poem was still read in a philosophical perspective, albeit in Aristotelian terms rather then neo-platonic ones, popular a century before, and scholars began to be concerned by the question of the supposedly immoral character of some of his verses. In 1613, not only was the Divina Commedia placed on the index of books forbidden by the Catholic Church, which considered it unfit for the ideals of the counter-Reformation, but a similar allegoric and moralistic attitude can be detected in Zacuto and Olmo’s unwillingness to imitate the realistic aspects of Dante’s vision of the afterlife as well as in the discomfort of several Jewish authors of the time when relating to the works of Ariosto, Boccaccio, and the Renaissance storytellers, whose contents were perceived as being immoral.37 The 17th century is the period of greatest indifference towards the work of Dante among Christians, and apparently also among Jews.38 When Simone Luzzatto speaks antonomastically of “the Poet,” he is invariably referring to Torquato Tasso, not to Dante.39 On a second level, we observe a slight, but significant disparity, in Dante’s fortune among Jewish and Christian readers. Dante’s influence— 37 It is this embarrassment that explains, for instance, the cautions and veiled allusion to the extremely obscene novel in Boccaccio’s Decameron (the tenth of the ninth day) contained in Avraham Portaleone’s Shiltey Ha-Gibborim, which is interpreted as an allegory, albeit witty, of alchemical transformations. Cf. A. Guetta, “Avraham Portaleone: From Science to Mysticism,” in Jewish Studies at the Turn of the Twentieth Century: Judaism from the Renaissance to Modern Times, J. Tagarona Borras and A, Saenz-Badillos (eds.) (Leiden-Boston 1998), p. 46. 38 It should not be forgotten that Immanuel Romano’s fortune among Italian Jews seems to have followed a path similar to Dante’s in the same period. Extremely popular during the 14th and 15th centuries—the editio princeps of his Mahbarot was printed in Brescia in 1490—Immanuel’s fame declined during the 16th and 17th centuries. An expression of this decline can be found in Yosef Caro’s condemnation of Immanuel’s writings in the context of counter-Reformation Puritanism. Even Yaaqov Frances, who defines Immanuel as the Qeisar HaHarzanim (emperor of poets), writes about him “he composed adulterous songs that must not be heard, although his Mahbarot certainly include much glorious poetry. May G-d forgive him and those who have printed his poems in full.” The Mahbarot did not appear again until 1796, when the freethinking poet Isaac Satanow brought out a new edition in Berlin. The reputation of Immanuel was rehabilitated in the 19th century by Samuel David Luzzatto, Abraham Geiger, Leopold Zunz, Brody, Vogelstein and Rieger, Heinrich Graetz, Moritz Güdeman, and Moritz Steinschneider, who gave the fullest account in Literaturblatt des Orients in 1843. In the course of the 19th century, Italian-Jewish interest in Immanuel, from Salvatore De Benedetti to Leonello Modona and Umberto Cassuto, will be intense, as we will show later, and was accompanied by the rediscovery of Moshe da Rieti, whose Miqdash Me’at remained unpublished until the 1851 first edition by Jacob Goldenthal in Vienna. 39 As, for instance, in Socrate (Venice 1651), p. 270.



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181

probably like that of any other non-Jewish author—can be noticed only at the margins and under the surface of Italian-Jewish writings, as if it had to pass through many filters and overcome great obstacles. In other words, Dante was apparently accepted in the Jewish world only after thorough censorship and only with regard to “innocent” matters of prosody and form rather than content and ideology. The slight and indirect impact of Dante on the Jews seems to be confirmed by Shifra Baruchson’s studies on Jewish libraries in Italy at the close of the Renaissance. Only 2.4 percent of the total number of books owned by Jews in 1595 Mantua concern works, mainly written in Italian, by nonJewish authors, and among these only one copy of the Divina Commedia is to be found, while the most popular non-Jewish book appears to be Ariosto’s Orlando Furioso, with twenty-eight copies, followed by Petrarca’s Canzoniere, with 18.40 Even if we mention the presence of another copy of the Divina Commedia in the library of a Sicilian converso,41 we are very far from the enthusiasm of Cecil Roth, who asserts that “the great classics of Italian literature—Dante, Petrarch and Ariosto—were fully as familiar in the Ghetto as outside.”42 The massive rehabilitation of Dante occurred only at the end of the 18th and beginning of the 19th century. After Emancipation (19th and 20th Centuries) In fact, in the 19th century, in contrast to the preceding five centuries, it is virtually impossible to find someone writing in Italian, Jewish or not and in any context, who does not season his argumentations with Dante’s verses. Therefore, I decided to confine my analysis to those texts where the reference to Dante appears in a specifically Jewish context or where an aspect of Jewish identity is at stake. Even after limiting the scope of this research, the number of Italian-Jewish authors is impressive, as can be seen from the list, undoubtedly incomplete, I have collected in Table 2. Maria Serena Sapegno has studied the importance of four myths in the formation of an Italian cultural identity during the Risorgimento

40 Shifra Baruchson, Sefarim VeQorim: Tarbut HaQriah Shel Yehudei Italia BeShalei HaRenaissance (Ramat Gan 1993), pp. 176–190 [Hebrew]. 41 I thank Nadia Zeldes for drawing my attention to her book, The Former Jews of This Kingdom: Sicilian Converts After the Expulsion (Leiden 2003), p. 247, and for this information. 42 C. Roth, History of Jews in Venice (Philadelphia 1930), p. 154.

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Table 2. Partial List of Italian Jews Who Wrote on Dante and Judaism in the 19th Century Arbib, Lelio Ascoli, Graziadio Isaia Barzilai, Giuseppe Benamozegh, Elia (Rabbi) Besso, Marco Camerini, D. (Rabbi) Cassuto, Moise David (Rabbi) Castelli, David Chajes, Hirsch P. (Rabbi) D’Ancona, Alessandro De Benedetti, Salvatore Della Torre, Lelio (Rabbi)

Formiggini, Saul Franchetti, Augusto Jaré, Giuseppe Lattes, Dante (Rabbi) Levi, Benedetto (Rabbi) Levi, David Levi, Graziadio David Luzzatto, Samuel David (Rabbi) Massarani, Tullo Modona, Leonello Momigliano, Felice Morais, Sabato (Rabbi)

Mortara, Ludovico Mortara, Marco Mussafia, Adolfo Orvieto, Angelo Paggi, Angelo Racah, Leone (Rabbi) Reggio, Isaac Samuel (Rabbi) Sabbadini, Salvatore Sacerdote, Giuseppe Sepilli S. di Ancona Servi, Flaminio (Rabbi) Soave, Moise

(resurgence): 1) the myth of language, 2) the myth of Rome, 3) the myth of Italy as the cradle of civilisation, and 4) the myth that the concept of Italy coincides with its historical and literary tradition.43 The figure of Dante—heir to the Roman poet Virgil, father of Italian language and literature in which all of Europe recognises the origins of modern culture—synthesises these four myths and was therefore particularly suitable to become the symbol of the new national identity. Italian Jews participated fervently in the canonisation process of Dante that reached its peak in the mid-19th century. The idea of the existence of a cultural Gemeinschaft of Italians preceding its national concretisation was particularly alluring to the Jews, who were clamouring for recognition of their civil rights. They only had to demonstrate that Jews and Judaism had taken an active part in Italian culture. Legal emancipation would have been nothing more than the official confirmation of their contribution to Italian culture in the years following the birth of a national conscience, which Romantic historiography dated back to the late Middle Ages, through the creation of a literary and political canon around the work and figures of the Tre Corone—Dante, Petrarch, and Boccaccio. Salvatore De Benedetti (1818–1891), professor of Hebrew at Pisa University, recalls the thirst of Jewish youth, stronger in his eyes than among Christians,

43 M.S. Sapegno, “Italia,” “Italiani,” in Letteratura Italiana, Le questioni (Turin 1982), p. 171.



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at the beginning of the 19th century towards the linguistic and cultural model represented by Dante: laddove gli scolari cattolici de Gesuiti ch’erano i più, sapevano fare versi greci, ma degli scrittori italiani erano loro dischiusi il Segneri, il Bartoli avanti a tutti, poi il Tasso, e dei tre altri padri, specialmente di Dante concessa appena qualche pagina, questi poveri scomunicati [the Jews] si nutrivano della letteratura nazionale tutta quanta e imparavano a scrivere italianamente.44

When Steinschneider wrote that Italian Jews saw Italian language as their own and “they had seen it in its beginnings, and began very quickly to share in its development; and never did they adulterate it or distort it with their own words,”45 he was not only countering the Italian model of integration with Eastern-European Jewish segregation, but he was also repeating a common assumption among Italian-Jewish scholars of the 19th century.46 Some of them, not content with overemphasising the use of Italian among Italian Jews as far back as the late Middle Ages, and forgetting that Hebrew remained until the end of the 18th century the predominant means of literary expression, while in everyday life Jews had recourse to different forms of Judeo-Italian dialects written in Hebrew letters rather than the Tuscan language of Dante, tried to demonstrate that Hebrew and Italian belonged to the same linguistic family. It is in this context that we should understand the desperate attempt of Graziadio Isaia Ascoli (1829–1907), in opposition to most of his colleagues, to demonstrate the affinities between Aryan and Semitic languages, at the end of which he concluded that Italian and Hebrew were two languages expressing the same cultural values, with Dante and the prophets of the Bible as their flag-bearers.47 Again, Salvatore De Benedetti, in one of the lectures he delivered at Pisa University, while aiming to show the spiritual and etymological affinities between Hebrew and Italian, derived the name of the

44 In S. De Benedetti, Giuseppe Levi, ricordo biografico (Florence 1876) (reprint 2003), p. 123. 45 Quoted and translated by G. Veltri, op. cit., p. 43. 46 An idea that made its way into Ludwig Geiger’s edition, repeatedly revised over decades, of Jacob Burckhard’s Die Kultur der Renaissance in Italien. S. Tchernikowsky in his work on Immanuel Haromi (Berlin 1925), p. 14, uses it to stress the influence of Jews on Italian culture and not only their acculturation to it, attributing this thesis to Burckhard himself, while in fact it originated in Jewish milieus for apologetic reasons. 47 Cf. B. Di Porto, “Dopo il Risorgimento al varco del ‘900. Gli ebrei e l’ebraismo in Italia,” Rassegna Mensile di Israel 47 (1981), pp. 90–119.

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Florentine river Arno from the biblical Arnon, making thus easier to acclimatise the sceneries of ancient Israel to Dante’s homeland.48 The obsession with language and the desire to see a spiritual, if not etymological, kinship between Italian and Hebrew is at work also in the question of Dante’s knowledge of Hebrew, which occupied a good deal of Italian-Jewish scholarship.49 The issue arises frequently in essays by 19th-century Jewish authors trying to demonstrate, on the one hand, that Hebrew was essential to interpreting many obscure passages in Dante’s poetry and, on the other, that Jewish culture was not only the receptacle of Dante’s influence but first and foremost that it shaped some of the central ideas of the Divina Commedia—such as the principle of measure for measure or the immortality of the soul.50 I will give but a few examples of the fanciful sagacity of 19th-century philological analyses of Dante’s texts. In 1872, there appeared a monograph written by Giuseppe Barzilai (Gradisca 1834–Triest 1902), a jurist and poet (appreciated by, among others, Victor Hugo), biblical commentator and father of Salvatore Barzilai (the famous Italian patriot and freedom fighter), interpreting the obscure verse in the Inferno, XXXI, 67, “Rafel mai amech zabi almi,” as being a mixture of Hebrew and Aramaic that should be read as ‫ערפל מאי עמק‬ ‫ סבי עלמא‬meaning somehow “How deep is the fog! Go around, world!”51 Likewise Angelo Paggi (1789–1867), Hebrew teacher in Tuscany, master of the famous Italian orientalist Fausto Lasinio, tried to show how much Semitic languages, in particular Aramaic, could contribute to a better

48 S. De Benedetti, L’antico testamento e la letteratura italiana (Pisa 1885). De Benedetti was intensively engaged in translation, publishing Italian versions of Hebrew books that may have exerted some influence on Dante’s literary vision of the afterlife. See S. De Benedetti, Storia di Rabbi Giosue, figliuolo di Levi—Leggenda talmudica (s.l., 1872); id.,“Trattato della Geenna,” Annuario della società italiana degli studi orientali I (1872), p. 187; id., “Ordine del paradiso deliciano,” Annuario della società italiana degli studi orientali III (1874), pp. 131, 194. 49 This question has been thoroughly studied by H. Rheinfelder, “Dante und die hebräische Sprache,” in Judentum im Mittelalter. Beiträge zum christlich-jüdischen Gespräch, P. Wilpert (ed.) (Berlin 1966), pp. 442–457. 50 S.D. Luzzatto, “Saggio critico intorno ad un oscuro passo di Dante concernente l’immortalità dell’anima,” Giornale euganeo di scienze, lettere, arti e varietà (24 December 1844), and in the same journal, “Aggiunta al saggio critico intorno ad un oscuro passo di Dante” (29 January 1845), quoted by Y. Colombo, “Samuel David Luzzatto critico ed ammiratore di Dante,” in Scritti in memoria di Guido Bedarida (Florence 1966) pp. 49–62. 51 A certain Jona, quoted by F. Servi, Dante e gli ebrei (Casale 1893), p. 13, translates this verse in an imaginative way: “Lascia o Dio perché annientare la mia potenza nel mio mondo?”



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understanding of Dante. He proposed to interpret the word “caribo,” used by Dante in Purg. XXXI, 133, as meaning “measure” since in Aramaic “gharib” designates a barrel of wine and could be used as a unit of measure.52 Other scholars proposed different interpretations of the famous verse “Pape Satan, Pape Satan Aleppe,” uttered by Pluto at the beginning of canto VII of the Inferno, based on Aramaic or on biblical Hebrew.53 Despite the evidence about Dante’s ignorance of the sacred language54 and the fact, widely accepted today, that “Dante’s acquaintance with Rabbinic matters may have been scant,”55 some 19th-century Italian-Jewish scholars, such as Flaminio Servi (1841–1904), vehemently asserted Dante’s proficiency in Hebrew grammar and vocabulary.56 In this context, it is not surprising to see an intense search for Jewish equivalents of Dante in Hebrew letters, a phenomenon completely opposite to what we have shown to be typical of the pre-emancipatory, negative attitude towards open acknowledgment of Dante’s influence. Moshe Zacuto was one of the first Jewish authors to be called “Dante degli ebrei” at the beginning of 19th century, by Anania Coen in his Saggio d’eloquenza ebrea (Reggio, 1809), and the purported similarity between Dante’s Divine Comedy and Zacuto’s Tofte Arukh is the basis for Salomone Isacco Luzzatti’s translation of the latter into Italian, under the title L’inferno preparato (Turin, 1819). Significantly, Yaaqov Goldenthal’s edition of the Miqdash Me’at by Moshe da Rieti, published in Vienna in 1851, bears the Italian title Dante ebreo ossia il Piccolo Santuario.57 The desire to Judaise Dante but even more, that to “Danticise” Hebrew, resulted in multiple translations of the Divina Commedia into Hebrew. It is known that Italian Jews produced five different translations, including those of single chapters and unpublished works, between 1869 and 1924, 52 A. Paggi, “Sopra la più probabile origine e significazione della voce Caribo usata da Dante nel v. 133 del canto 31 del Purgatorio,” L’Etruria 1 (1851), pp. 200–201. 53 See Studi inediti su Dante Alighieri (Florence 1846), where a certain G. Venturi, in an 1811 letter to Frecavalli, translates the verse “Pape Satan, Pape Satan Aleppe” as meaning “Qui Satana, qui Satana è imperatore.” 54 Demonstrated by H. Rheinfelder, “Dante und die hebräische Sprache,” in Judentum in Mittelalter, P. Wilpert (ed.) (Berlin 1966), pp. 442–458. 55 A. Cronbach, “Manner for Manner in Dante,” Hebrew Union College Annual 35 (1964), pp. 193–212; M.E. Artom, “Precedenti biblici e talmudici del contrappasso,” Dante e la Bibbia (1988), pp. 55–62. 56 F. Servi, Dante e gli ebrei (Casale 1893); the booklet was printed as a wedding gift for the Artom-Pavia couple. 57 The drive to measure the importance of Jewish authors according to the fame of nonJewish ones finds one of its first examples in Samuele Romanelli, who in his Grammatica ebraica, published in Triest in 1799, defines the poet Efraim Luzzatto as ebraico Petrarca.

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outnumbering the four translations made in the last hundred years for the Hebrew-speaking readership in British Mandatory Palestine and the State of Israel (see Table 3). This flurry of translations was offset by the inverse phenomenon: the translation into Italian of Hebrew works supposedly inspired by Dante (see Table 4). Both tables show how much 19th-century Jewish translators were eager to propagate examples of a supposedly beneficial and reciprocal influence of Dante and Judaism among Hebrew and Italian readers. If such an intense spate of translations seems surprising, given that at the time Jews in Italy who were capable of reading Hebrew were a small minority on the verge of extinction, a glimpse at the preface of Saul Menahem Formiggini’s translation of the Inferno into the sacred language offers an explanation. I quote from ‫( ספר מראות אלוקים‬Sefer Mar‘ot Elokim) (The Book of Divine Visions).58 Table 3. Translators of Dante’s Divina Commedia into Hebrew (and Yiddish) Saul Formiggini, Sefer Marot Elokim (Trieste: Lloyd, 1869) (the Inferno, but he also translated the Purgatorio and the Paradiso, which remained in manuscript)59 Hillel (Lelio) Della Torre (Canto del conte Ugolino) in Scritti Sparsi (Padua: Prosperini, 1908), Vol. 1, pp. 271–286 (the original translation was published in 1871) Umberto Cassuto, Versione in lingua Aramaica della Orazione domenicale, Purgatorio XI, 1–24 (Rome: Marco Besso, 1922) Emilio Schreiber (Sofer), Hazon Ha-Elohi: Ha-Tofet Zemer Rishon—Le premier chant de la Divine Comedie (Rome: L’universale, 1924) V.Z. Jabotinsky (Inferno 1,3, 5, 33 in HaTekufa, 1923) Lea Goldberg, Tor HaTohar (Jerusalem: Mifal Ha-Shikhpul, 1954) Emmanuel Olsvanger, Ha-Qomedia Ha-Elohit (Jerusalem: Sifrei Tarshish, 1944, 1953, 1957, 1975) Emmanuel Olsvanger, Ha-Hayyim Ha-Hadashim (Jerusalem: Sifrei Tarshish, 1957) Hen Melekh Merhavia, Al Ha-Monarkhia (Jerusalem: Mossad Bialik, 1961) Arieh Stav, Ha-Qomedia Ha-Elohit (Tel Aviv: Ha-Kibbutz Ha-Meuhad, 2007) Arieh Stav, Hayyim Hadashim (Tel Aviv: Ha-Kibbutz Ha-Meuhad, 2010) Shmuel Kokhav (Stern), Die Gottliche Komedie: Der Gehinom (Kovno 1932)

58 Saul Formiggini, Sefer Mar’ot Elokim (Trieste 1869) [Hebrew]. On Formiggini (1807– 1873), a Jewish physician from Trieste, see Tullia Catalan, “La primavera degli ebrei. Ebrei italiani del Litorale e del Lombardo-Veneto nel 1848–49,” Zakhor 6 (2003), p. 42. About Dante, he also wrote Dante medico (s.l. 1847) and Dodici epigrafi poetiche a centone dantesco (Trieste 1865). 59 Salvatore Sabbadini, Di una traduzione ebraica della Divina Commedia (Trieste: Lloyd, 1923).



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Table 4. Translations into Italian of Hebrew Works Supposedly Influenced by Dante Debora Ascarelli, the second section of part two of Moses Rieti’s Miqdash Me’at (Venice 1601–1602) Salomone Isacco Luzzatti, Moses Zacut’s L’Inferno preparato (Turin 1819) Moisé Soave, Dante Allighieri [sic] ed il poeta Emmanuele (Venice 1865) (translation of part of the Paradise section of Immanuel’s “Mahberet Ha-Tofet Ve-Ha-Eden,” pp. 3–9) Sansone Seppilli, Inferno e Paradiso. Versione poetica dall’ebraico (Ancona: Civelli, 1874), reprinted in Carlo del Balzo, Poesie di mille autori intorno a Dante Alighieri (Rome: Tipografia del Senato, 1890), Vol. II, pp. 5–54 and in Leonello Modona, Vita e opere di Immanuel Romano (Florence 1904) (an extract of this translation was published by the same author under the title I teologi naturali. Squarcio del Paradiso di Immanoello Romano, versione dall’ebraico (Pisa 1871)) Cesare Foà, Olmo’s Eden Gnaruch, Ossia il Paradiso (Finale-Emilia 1904) Emanuele Weiss Levi, Immanuel’s L’Inferno e il Paradiso (Florence: Giuntina 2000) S.D. Luzzatto’s sonnet to Dante Alighieri, composed in 1865, has been translated into Italian in two different versions, one by Davide Lolli, the other by Giuseppe Jaré There is a transcription by Gustavo Sacerdote of the complete text of Immanuel’s 28th mahberet in Latin characters in Carlo del Balzo, Poesie di mille autori intorno a Dante Alighieri (Rome: Tipografia del Senato, 1889), Vol. I, pp. 493–565 Dante Alighieri fu il poeta dell’umanità tutta. Egli vaticinò. Nacque cristiano e quindi si servì di quella dottrina. I principali suoi concetti, i maggiori suoi argomenti sono però di tutte le religioni. Dalla Bibbia egli trasse preziosi concetti, e tutto prova, che la conoscesse a fondo . . . Credevamo, che a Dante, già tradotto in pressoché tutte le lingue, non dovesse mancare l’onore di essere voltato comechessia, anche in quella sacrosanta del Sinai.

In the Hebrew preface, he even emphatically writes that: ‫ הגדול במשוררים היה דנטה‬,‫אשר רוח הקודש דיבר בם‬, '‫אחרי נביאי ה‬ !‫ ואחריו לא קיים כמוהו בכל עם ולשון‬,‫אליגיירי‬ After God’s prophets, who were spoken to by the Divine Spirit, the greatest poet was Dante Alighieri and after him, no one like him existed in any people or language!

Formiggini’s declared goal is therefore to demonstrate the compatibility of the sacred language with Dante’s style, to prove that “una volta di più che a tutto si presta quell’antichissimo idioma,” even though he is conscious that the translation will not be able to preserve “la venustà della forma originale.” Through the translation, Hebrew becomes worthy to enter the assembly of civilised nations, even though few people will be

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able to enjoy the translation. It should be a vehicle of enlightenment for those Jews living in Eastern Europe who still ignore the civilising virtues of Dante’s poetry: potranno e comprendere il lavoro e le fatiche che costò con la sola consolazione, assai remota in verità, che forse gioverà a diffondere i lumi profetici dell’opera dantesca presso quei Israeliti russi, polacchi ed orientali ed altri ancora che dovettero restar privi finora di aver un’idea, sebbene pallidissima, delle somme bellezze d’un poema, il nome del cui autore avranno udito di certo pronunziare con lode grandissima.60

We are then at the antipodes of the medieval paraphrasers who wanted, through Hebrew, to raise Dante to the height of the Jewish spirit and protect him from expressions unfit for biblical language. In the 19th century, it is the Hebrew language that improves by adapting itself to the standards of Dante’s masterpiece and Jews will benefit from its emancipatory effects. The deep ideological significance of this cultural operation did not escape the critical stance of Rabbi Lelio Della Torre of Cuneo (1805–1871).61 In two letters addressed to Rabbi Benedetto Levi of Ferrara (1846–1880), his pupil in the Collegio Rabbinico in Padua, Della Torre attacks the work of Formiggini for its pointlessness.62 After putting into evidence Formiggini’s mistakes and improper use of Hebrew, which Della Torre tries to remedy with his own alternative prose translation of Conte Ugolino’s episode,63 the rabbi demonstrates the uselessness of translating Dante into Hebrew, not so much for the difficulties involved or because Hebrew was a dead language but because Dante and Judaism are diametrically opposed. Even those who are still capable of using Hebrew in everyday life and in study or business, not only do not master it sufficiently to understand a translation in pure biblical language, but also are not capable of appreciating a work “che da un capo all’altro è in contrasto colle 60 Apparently, this attempt to disseminate Dante to Eastern European Jewish communities was not as unsuccessful as it would seem, at least in Della Torre’s eyes. Dante is, in fact, included among the great figures of universal culture mentioned by S. Schreider in Sefer Toledot Anshei Shem MeHakhmei Ammim HaLo Hem Abelard, Dante, Ramus VeLincoln (Vilna 1873) [Hebrew]. 61 The only contemporary scholar who stressed the importance and originality of Della Torre’s writing on Dante is Aldo Mola, in a short but insightful remark in his article, “Lelio della Torre: un rabbino tra Risorgimento e Terza Italia,” Isacco Artom e gli ebrei italiani dai Risorgimenti al fascismo, A. Mola (ed.) (Foggia 2002), p. 35. 62 L. Della Torre, “Sull’Inferno di Dante fatto ebraico,” Scritti Sparsi (Padua 1908), pp. 271ff. 63 Ibid.



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loro convinzioni religiose.”64 He attacks Formiggini’s work because no one will read it, but mainly because Dante’s philosophy is incompatible with Judaism: “io dico che un israelita traducendo Dante in ebraico fa un atto ostile al Giudaismo.”65 Jews, according to Della Torre, have nothing to learn from Dante who, on the contrary, offers a vision of the world that is antithetical, if not hostile, to the Jews. Della Torre was swimming against the tide among Italian Jews at that time. Only his colleague in the rabbinical seminary at Padua, Samuel David Luzzatto (also known by his Hebrew acronym, Shadal ‫( )שד"ל‬1800–1865), seems to have been conscious of the theological abyss separating Dante and the Jewish faith, as he reveals in a letter to Moritz Steinschneider dated 22 August 1859, where he writes that “l’idea di Dante non credo giudaica . . . La Divina Commedia è idea tutta cristiana. E poi Dante aveva bisogno di sfogare la sua bile contro alcuni malvagi suoi contemporanei.”66 But even Shadal, uncompromising in other matters, does not dare to make his opinion public. In the sonnet composed for the sixth centennial anniversary of Dante’s birth in 1865, he calls Dante Tzaddiq without hesitation and compares him to the Neviei Qedem (The ancient prophets), on top of praising his poetical qualities: ‫( על כל חכמי זימרה על כן עלית‬al kol hakhamei zimrah al ken alita) (you have risen above all poets).67 Shadal’s sonnet is particularly interesting insofar it reveals three recurrent leitmotivs in Jewish readings of Dante that go beyond simple admiration for his poetic and literary genius. 1 – Dante is used by Shadal, Formiggini, Schreiber and many others as an illustration of universalism and of what Goethe called Weltliteratur, i.e., the evolutionary process whereby the various national literatures will gradually merge and achieve a splendour that rivals ancient letters. He is

64 Ibid. p. 283. Among contemporary stances favourable to Hebrew translations of the Divine Comedy, we should mention B. Chiesa, “Dante et la cultura ebraica del Trecento,” p. 340, who claims the translation, despite the inevitable shortcomings in preserving the literary value of the original, can help modern readers to understand the biblical substratum of Dante’s work: “rivelatrice di quel colorito biblico che è già in Dante e che il lettore comune non può avvertire se non con grande fatica.” 65 Ibid. p. 284. 66 S.D. Luzzatto, Epistolario italiano francese latino (Padua 1890), p. 944. 67 The sonnet was widely disseminated in the press. It was republished in the commemorative volume Omaggio dell’Europa a Dante (Florence 1865) and reproduced in Corriere Israelitico, the Jewish journal of Trieste (1865), p. 192. It appeared in Luzzatto’s poetry collection, Kinnor Naim (Padua 1879), II, p. 37, and in the appendix of Formiggini’s translation in 1869.

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even the prophet par excellence who prefigures a common religion for all humanity; he is adamantly compared with the biblical prophets, the Neviei Qedem (in Shadal’s words) and the Neviei Hashem (in Formiggini’s). It is otherwise noteworthy that in the list of 19th-century Italian Jews who dealt with Dante (Table 2), half were rabbis, most of whom were committed to defining Judaism as a religion and a civic morality, perfectly compatible with modern civilisation. Salomone Isacco Luzzatti writes in the introduction to his translation of Zacuto’s Hell Outspread: agli ebrei lettori dirò dunque che un sufficiente compenso troveranno nella lettura di quest’opera, vedendovi riprodotte massime de’ loro teologi così sante, commendevoli ed abbracciate da tutte le sette incivilite ed a cattolici ripeterò ciò che disse San Bernardo‚ se non vuoi andare all’Inferno dopo la morte, vacci col pensiero prima di morire.68

Dante is compared to Moses by a young and at that time still obscure rabbi in Leghorn, Eliahu Benamozegh (1823–1900), who uses two figures to epitomise the characteristics of the Italian-Jewish soul, where Moses represents the source of religious values while Dante constitutes the foundation of cultural and national identity. He preaches to an audience composed of Jews and Christians in 1847: Ma voi siete italiani! E quale gloria dopo questo gran nome vi rimane ad invidiare? In voi Israeliti l’antichità tutta, in ciò che di santo, di grande possiede, compendiate: in voi Italiani la moderna civiltà, per quattro volte sparsa per l’immenso mondo, rappresentate . . . chi di voi nelle umane e divine glorie ai portentosi nomi di Mosé e di Dante non inchina reverente la testa?69

Cavaglion indicates, and rightly so, that the national valorisation of humanist culture reconciling Dante with the Bible was one of the causes of the non-event of reform in Italy, where the Bible was read as a poetic text while the Commedia was read as a prophetic text and therefore no space was left for a critical approach to tradition.70 68 Inferno preparato (Turin 1819), p. 7. 69 Quoted by C. Ferrara degli Uberti, La Nazione Ebrea di Livorno dai privilegi all’emancipazione (1814–1860) (Florence 2007), pp. 103–104. Ferrara degli Uberti rightly underscores that “la specificità religiosa degli ebrei è ridotta all’aspetto religioso . . . La terra—come del resto la lingua—rappresenta un indispensabile elemento dell’identità degli israeliti italiani . . . tuttavia . . . gli ebrei erano presentati come diversi dagli altri in quanto . . . tutti gli italiani condividono la gloria di Dante e di Roma, ma solo gli ebrei sommano a questa responsabilità quella di discendenti di Mosé.” 70 A. Cavaglion, “Qualche riflessione sulla mancata riforma,” in Integrazione e identita (Milano 1996).



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2 – Apart from the ethical and religious vocation that Italian Jews wanted to attribute to Dante, there was also his political dimension. Many Jews adopted Foscolo’s ghibellin interpretation of Dante’s political orientation, transforming him into a tireless opponent of the temporal power of the Pope.71 They saw in Dante a forerunner of the idea of a secular patriotism (as for instance Felice Momigliano,72 who in the L’arte nella mente di Giuseppe Mazzini published in 1906 maintains, without mincing his words, that “la patria è incarnata in Dante” and a defender of religious tolerance (since his Limbo accepted the souls of non-baptised people).73 For the jurist and minister of justice Ludovico Mortara (1855–1937), Dante could represent both the independence of Italy from foreign occupation and the liberation of Jews from the ghetto. As noted by Cavaglion: è il Dante umanista, prerinascimentale che si oppone al medioevo oscurantista ad attirare l’attenzione dei neo-emancipati . . . l’esortazione di Virgilio a Dante, all’uscire da Malebolge “ormai convien che ti spoltre” è interpretata da Ludovico Mortara in chiave personale, di uscita dalle ristrettezze del ghetto.74

For the Jews, Dante’s exile becomes attractive especially when it is possible to superimpose the memory of Jewish Diaspora onto exile for political reasons during the Italian Independence wars (Shadal writes in the aforementioned sonnet of 1865 “‫אז גורשת ואז גולה נדחת הנפש הזכה הערימה‬ ‫( ;”עב‬then you [Dante] were exiled and then from the distant exile the pure soul raised its head). Dante served as a role model for Italian-Jewish exiles (much like Marx and Heine did for German Jews), such as the Jewish actor and Italian patriot Gustavo Modena (1803–1861), who appeared on the London stage for the first time in concert intervals at the Queen’s theatre in 1839, dressed in a red cloak with a hood, in the role of Dante, “improvising” canti from the Comedy.

71 As did F. Servi and G.D. Levi, who in La Questione Romana. Democrazia e papismo (1863), p. 30, defines Dante as “profeta antipapale”; see also T. Massarani. Dante belonged to the Guelph party, though the Bianchi faction, which wanted more freedom from Rome, was closer in this regard to the Ghibellines’ claims against the Pope. 72 Momigliano also wrote an essay on Dante and patriotism. 73 F. Servi in Dante e gli ebrei, cit. writes for instance: “l’Italia fu sempre la terra de’ forti propositi e delle magnanime imprese e l’Italia che venera l’Alighieri come il sommo tra i suoi poeti, ha imparato da lui ad ispirarsi ai dettami della fratellanza e dell amore.” 74 From A. Cavaglion’s preface to G. Levi, Autobiografia di un padre di famiglia (Florence 1876) (reprinted in 2003), p. xxix.

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3 – If the previous examples show how Jews in the liberal and Mazzinian circles shared common interpretations of Dante with Christians, the predominant subject that was developed and cultivated by mainly Jewish writers and scholars was that of a Judeo-Christian symbiosis that should have existed among Italians since the 14th century and whose concrete expression was to be found in the friendship between Dante and Immanuel Romano. It does not matter that many scholars in the 19th century proved this event to be highly improbable.75 The prevalent image of Dante among Italian Jews, with the notable exception of Della Torre, is that of an enlightened philo-Semite surrounded by Jewish friends and admirers.76 Servi, rabbi and director of the Vessillo Israelitico, one of Italy’s most widely read Jewish journals, writes in 1893 “l’amicizia sincera di un ingegno sovrano come Dante con un ebreo nel medio evo—amicizia su cui non cade più il minimo dubbio—è prova del cuor nobile di lui e della malvagità di quanti odiano o disprezzano gli israeliti senza una ragione al mondo.”77 Against those who peremptorily denied the possibility of Dante being acquainted with Immanuel, many scholars in and outside Italy took a stand in defence of a friendship based on mutual esteem between the Jewish and the Christian poet.78 The prestige of staunch proponents of this theory, such as Samuel David Luzzatto and the Jewish professor at Pisa University Alessandro D’Ancona (1835–1914),79 convinced Italy’s national poet, Giosué Carducci, to support it.80 The desire to find Jewish counterparts to the great writers of Italian literature was not limited to Dante. In 75 The only aspect of Immanuel’s oeuvre that attracted the constant attention of historians during the 19th century was the relationship between Dante and Immanuel Romano. Opinion was divided between those who believed they had a personal acquaintance and friendship (Shadal, D. Kaufmann, F. Servi, M. Steinschneider, M. Soave, G. Carducci, C. Bernheimer) and those who were more sceptical (S. Munk or F.-X. Kraus). Kraus, in Dante, sein Leben und sein Werk (Berlin 1897), p. 146, claimed that “il faudra supprimer le juif Emmanuel du nombre des amis du poète italien”. The question of their friendship is still debated in the 20th century, although Cassuto has convincingly demonstrated its improbability. Cf. L. Harry, “Immanuel of Rome,” Proceedings of the American Academy for Jewish Research 6 (1935), pp. 277–308. 76 Again, it was only Lelio Della Torre who claimed that Dante did not befriend Jews, quoting as a proof the famous verse “sì che l’Giudeo tra di voi di voi non rida” (Par. V, 81). 77 F. Servi, Dante e gli ebrei (Casale 1893), p. 6. 78 Abraham Geiger, Hebräische Bibliographie III (1860), p. 59; D. Kaufmann, “Manoello et le Dante,” Revue des Ètudes Juives 37 (1898), pp. 252–258; M. Steinschneider, Monatschrift für Geschichte und Wissenschaft des Judentums, 43 (1899), p. 120. 79 S.D. Luzzatto in his appendix to Camillo Ugoni, Della letteratura italiana nella seconda meta del secolo diciotessim (Milano 1856) III, p. 208 and A. D’Ancona, Rivista italiana di scienze, lettere ed arti, 4 (1863), p. 5. 80 G. Carducci, Studi letterari (Leghorn 1874), p. 260.



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Petrarch’s case also, many 19th-century scholars, Jews and non-Jews alike, from Ugo Foscolo to Beniamino Artom,81 were eager to believe in the historical existence of a Jewish poetess named Giustina Levi-Perotti, who supposedly authored a sonnet addressed to Petrarch. Her name appears in almost every study dedicated to female writers and was widely quoted by Jewish scholars, such as Cecil Roth, as an early example of a Jewess writing poetry even beyond the 19th century, despite Medardo Morici’s demonstration that the figure of this poetess was a late Renaissance forgery and a literary hoax.82 The drive to force historical evidence into the framework of an idyllic cohabitation between Jews and Christians in the welcoming land of Italy reaches a peak in the arguments of otherwise serious scholars such as Moisé Soave (1820–1882),83 Flaminio Servi, Leonello Modona (1841–1902) and Carlo Bernheimer (1877–1966). Daniel, Immanuel’s guide through Hell and Paradise, is unquestioningly identified with Dante, only because both names begin with the same three letters.84 Servi goes even further, assuming—with no proof whatsoever—that Immanuel was not only Dante’s closest friend (on this basis, he asserts that it was Immanuel Romano to have suggested the whole Divine Comedy design to Dante) but also the lover of Dante’s wife. As late as 1915, the Leghorn palaeographer Carlo Bernheimer believed to have found more evidence of Immanuel and Dante’s friendship when he discovered Yehuda Romano’s manuscript containing quotations from the Divina Commedia.85 A cousin of Immanuel, Yehuda had first-hand knowledge of Dante’s works, ergo Immanuel was Dante’s intimate friend!

81 Beniamino Artom, Vessillo Israelitico, 1879, p. 379. Also M. Keyserling, Die Jüdischen Frauen in der Geschichte, Literatur und Kunst (Leipzig 1879), p. 158, followed by R. Lazarus and G. Karpeles. 82 M. Morici, “Giustina Levi-Perotti e le Petrarchiste Marchigiane,” Rassegna Nazionale, August (1899), p. 27. 83 M. Soave, Dante Alighieri ed il poeta Emmanuele (Venice 1865). 84 L. Modona, Rime volgari di Immanuele Romano (Parma 1898) (nozze Segre-Modona); and Vita e opere di Immanuele Romano (Florence 1904); F. Servi in Vessillo Israelitico (1890), p. 342, and Dante e gli ebrei (Casale 1893). Servi adduces, as proof of his claims, that among the Jews in Tuscany, the Italian equivalent of the Hebrew name Daniel is Dante. Soave in the aforementioned booklet cast doubt on this identification, previously defended by him, in the wake of Abraham Geiger’s assumptions published in the Hebräische Bibliographie, III (1860), p. 59 and in Volgestein-Rieger, Geschichte der Juden in Rom (Berlin 1895–96) I, p. 440. Though he later revised his own position, this was also the opinion of U. Cassuto, “L’elemento italiano nelle Mechabberoth, ” Rivista Israelitica (1906), pp. 41–42. 85 C. Bernheimer, “Una trascrizione ebraica dalla Divina Commedia sugli inizi del sec. XIV,” Giornale Storico della Letteratura Italiana 66 (1915), pp. 122–127.

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Even Umberto Cassuto (1883–1951), who uncovered the triviality of this theory and demonstrated the groundlessness of Immanuel’s personal acquaintance with Dante, puts forward again the idyllic image of centuries of cohabitation between Jews and Christians in Italy, reassessing the myth of the two souls, Italian and Jewish, who could live together in “un’armonia concorde e mirabilmente operosa.”86 But by the turn of the 20th century, the question of Dante’s Jewish connections was losing most of its topicality. Already at the end of the 19th century, once the moral and political questions surrounding Dante’s figure faded away, as well as Risorgimento’s enthusiasms, research on Dante became, even among Jews (among the most illustrious Dantists in postunity Italy should be mentioned Adolfo Mussafia, Alessandro D’Ancona and Marco Besso, whose interest in Dante’s intertextual relationships with Jewish texts is but scant), part of a positivistic and passionless erudition, and Dante ceased to be invested with a particular religious and iconic function. Maybe also because, by then, most of the younger generation of Jews seemed did not feel anymore the need to compose an inner struggle between “Italianity” and “Judaity”: they had already opted for Dante instead of the Bible. It is with an almost desperate appeal that Leone Racah addresses his contemporaries when he writes in the introduction of his manual on Jewish history: E voi specialmente o giovinetti, che siete figli di questa terra gloriosa e prediletta dal Cielo, che dopo secoli di dura schiavitù, ha saputo a prezzo di eroici sacrifici e di rare abnegazioni riconquistare il posto che spettavale tra le più potenti nazioni del globo, allato al ricco patrimonio di gloriose tradizioni che possedete come italiani, porre dovete quello che avete avuto in retaggio come Israeliti. Si è perciò che voi, cui sono già famigliari i nomi famosi di Dante, di Petrarca, di Michelangelo, di Ferruccio, di Galileo, e di altri grandissimi, la cui memoria durerà eterna, spero leggerete con affetto codeste pagine, in cui vi presento personaggio non meno illustri, non meno degni per voi di perpetuo ricordo.87

For those who did not completely abandon Judaism, the consoling vision of a happy marriage between Judaism and Christianity could no longer suffice. Instead, a new inner Gerissenheit makes its appearance, as in Angelo Orvieto’s poetry, in which the poet, torn by the nostalgic appeal of Zion to his soul and his love for the city of Dante, presents the possible 86 U. Cassuto, Dante e Manoello (Florence 1921), p. 73. 87 L. Racah, Il plutarco israelita: libro di lettura per i giovanetti israeliti (Livorno 1881), p. 7.



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conciliation of Jewishness with Florentinity as a pious illusion and with nostalgic regret. Naturale ch’ei [Dattilo da Montolmo: pseudonym chosen by Orvieto in his Canzoniere] cercasse ogni argomento atto a meglio affratellare nel suo spirito ebraicità e fiorentinità così vivamente sentite, e ch’ei volesse perfino persuadersi che anche un Dante Alighieri, appunto perché forse d’orgine etrusca, e cioé probabilmente orientale, si era trovato rispetto a Firenze in situazione analoga a quella di lui Dattilo, fiorentino ed ebreo come Dante era stato insieme etrusco e fiorentino.88

With the rise of Zionism, the question of Dante and Judaism is overshadowed by more urgent debates among Jewish youth in Italy. No Italian would ever dare to belittle Dante’s stature, but he becomes for many Jews struggling to find their place in the new ideological configuration of the aftermath of World War I somehow a cumbersome heritage. In her historical novel Il gioco dei regni, Clara Sereni quotes a 1921 discourse held by her father Mimmo (Vittorio Sereni, future leader in the Italian Communist Party) in front of his family where he mockingly refers to Dante as a “minor” writer of the 13th century who wrote “a passable adventure’s roman entitled Divina Commedia.”89 In this parody, Dante is nothing more than an object of erudition, however venerable, and an avatar of bourgeois culture, which Vittorio Sereni, as a Communist, and his brother Enzo, as a Zionist, are trying to detach themselves from. Interestingly enough, around the same years in which this event takes place, the poet Saul Tchernichowsky writes an essay on Immanuel Romano where he claimed him as his poet-ancestor precisely for his intrinsic poetic value and not because he is just Dante’s imitator.90 From now on, Israel and not Italy will be the place in the Jewish world where discussions about Dante will be the fiercest, centring on questions related to the secular or

88 A. Orvieto, Il vento di Sion: canzoniere d’un ebreo fiorentino del Cinquecent (Florence 1928), p. 8. 89 C. Sereni, Il gioco dei regni (Florence 1993), p. 139. 90 S. Tchernikowsky, Immanuel HaRomi (Berlin 1925) [Hebrew]. For Tchernikowsky, Immanuel’s importance in Hebrew letters relies less on his description of Hell and Paradise in the 28th mahberet than in the rest of his literary oeuvre. Tchenikowsky appears to have been among the first to stress the differences rather than the similarities between Dante’s and Immanuel’s visions of the afterlife, such as the fact that Immanuel writes in rhymed prose, that his Hell lacks any special subdivision for different categories of sinners, that he records sounds rather than images, and that he does not mention any of his contemporaries by name other than few members of his family.

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religious identity of the new Hebrew literature. But this goes far beyond the limits of our research.91 Conclusions I would like to conclude by revisiting my initial goal: I did not intend to quantify or investigate the real impact of Dante’s influence on Italian Jews, but only to show the different ways in which the Jewish literary field was configured before and after Emancipation by looking at how Jews used Dante’s figure and works. My thesis could be rephrased in the following manner: before Emancipation, albeit with some slender yet undeniable influence of Dante, Jewish writers tried as much as possible to conceal any outside indebtedness, either by defending the idea that every literary genre derives ultimately from the Bible, or by eliminating every explicit reference to non-Jewish sources. After Emancipation, the situation was completely reversed, as Jews tried to acknowledge a debt to Dante even where it did not exist. If the first strategy was a kind of competition/contrast towards the surrounding culture, the second was based on an effort of emulation/integration. Many reasons can be brought forward in order to explain this shift. Using Amos Funkenstein’s conceptual instruments to understand the epoch-changing influence of modernity on Jews, we can say that Dante served many objectives vital for the Jews facing the challenges of Emancipation. These included 1) legitimation: Dante’s friendship with Jews and openness to Jewish culture offered a justification for the entry of Jews into the general civil society, 2) compensation: many Jews, even as far back as the Middle Ages, reached important literary achievements that could be compared to those of their Christian contemporaries, and 3) symbolic: Dante and his Jewish emulators prefigured the age of Enlightenment.92 Dante became for Italian Jews one of the main “new sources of authority,” that according to Jacob Katz, allowed Jews confronting modernity to redefine Jewish identity apart from Jewish law.93 91 On this subject, see G. Abramson, “Dante and Modern Hebrew Literature,” in Semitic Studies in Honour of Edward Ullendorf, G. Khan (ed.) (Leiden-Boston 2005), pp. 323–337. In this essay, the author examines aspects of intertextuality in the works by Shulamit Hareven, Ahron Meged and H.N. Bialik. 92 A. Funkenstein, Perceptions of Jewish History (Berkeley 1993), pp. 239–240. 93 J. Katz, “The Suggested Relationship between Sabbatianism, Haskalah and Reform,” in Divine Law in Human Hands: Case Studies in Halakhic Flexibility (Jerusalem 1998), p. 522.



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Notwithstanding the reasons for this change, it is important to stress that the Jewish literary field before Emancipation is ideally, if not practically, built as OTHER from the rest of the nations (this does not imply that it was actually “other”), while after Emancipation, it is configured as analogical to that of the gentiles and therefore the SAME (as can be seen in the desire to place Hebrew literature in the canons of universal literature and demonstrate the interchangeability of the language of the Divine Comedy and the Bible). Paradoxically, it is precisely when the concession of civil rights to the Jews in the 19th century seemed to have destroyed many social and juridical barriers between Jews and Christians that Jews were confronted with a tragic dilemma: either completely abandon any self-perceived singularity, together with the idea of election, or reclaim a separate identity shaped by the example of precisely those models that are rejected. If, in the preemancipation era, the Jewish literary field was moulded by the boundaries of the general culture, being therefore beyond it but in constant dialogue with it, after Emancipation there was to be a constant and anguished strife among many Jewish intellectuals to find the right formula for a “Jewish” novel, for a “Jewish” historiography, for a “Jewish” equivalent of modern nationalism, and therefore for a “Jewish” Dante. But this meant that at the end of this process, all the raison d’être of a Jewish separate republique des lettres was “lost in translation.”

From Sicily to Rome: The Cultural Route of Michele Zumat, Physician and Rabbi in the 16th Century Angela Scandaliato I will start this essay with a strange dialogue that took place sometime during the first half of the 16th century between some Orientalist intellectuals at the papal court, one of whom was Rabbi Michele Zumat,1 a kabbalist who had come from Africa and the Jewish preceptor of Cardinal Egidio da Viterbo. Reportedly, in 1525, Girolamo Aleandro, librarian of the Vatican library, along with Cardinal Egidio da Viterbo, participated in a conversation with Rabbi Zumat. According to another version of the events, the discussion had taken place with an Arab faqih that some academics have identified as Yuhanna al Asad, better known as Leon the African, who had been taken prisoner by a pirate, converted, and given in service to Pope Leon the X. He would have lived at the papal court, translating important documents from Arabic, until the Sacco di Roma, that is, the conquest of Rome by the lansquenet of Emperor Charles V, when he managed to escape and return to Africa.2 The subject of the discussion was the fish that was promised the righteous at the feast served in Heaven, and the Arab academic asked the reason for this particular choice of food. Aleandro replied using the example of the fish offered by Christ to the disciples after his resurrection. The intellectual replied in jest: “See how the Messiah did not want to trick his disciples out of what they were hoping for this feast.” Widmanstadt, a student of Cardinal Egidio da Viterbo, refers to this particular story in his Doctrina Machumet, printed in 1543.3 In the Italian translation of this work (of which only the editor, Andrea Arrivabene, is known), published together with other works on Islam in the first Italian edition of the Koran in 1547, the unknown translator—when using Widmanstadt’s 1 I prefer to use the form Zumat and not Zemat or Zamat, because I find Summatus in the Latin documentation. 2 On al-Hasan al-Wazzan or Leon the African and Michael Zematto, see N. Zemon Davis, La doppia vita di Leone l’Africano (Rome 2008). 3 J.A. Widmanstadt, Mahometis Abdallae Filii Theologia Dialogo explicate, Hermanno Nellingaunense interprete, Alcorani Epitome Roberto Ketense Anglo interprete, s.l. [Nurnberg] 1543, cc. N 4v-o1r.

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comments—confuses two characters: Michele Zumat ben Sabbathai, also known as Zematus, and Leon the African, attributing to one the characteristics of the other, as François Secret has shown.4 Michele Zumat is referred to as a doctor and rabbi in the histories of the Jews of Rome by Vogelstein and Rieger,5 in those of Berliner6 and Perles,7 and in other recent works. Vogelstein and Rieger, for example, define “the high learned Magister Zematus coming from Africa” as the second most important Jewish teacher of Aegidius Viterbiensis. Vicente Risco describes him in this way: Uno de los grandes maestros de la Kabbalah en Italia, fue Michael ben Sabbetai que reunion una magnifica biblioteca cabalistica, y fue llamado magister Zematus, por proceder su familia de Zemat, en Africa. Tuvo numerosos discipulos judios y cristianos.8 Israel Zinberg writes: “One of these rabbis was the rabbi of Rome, Michael Ben Shabbetai (Zematus judeus), who acquainted Egidio and Widmanstadt with the mysteries of the kabbalah.”9 4 I report the observations of Secret using a quotation by the translator, probably a nephew of Pietro and Girolamo Aleandro: “Si Postel ne fait pas erreur, on a perdu trace d’une edition latine du Coran à Venise, en 1540. la version italienne, studiée par S. De Sacy, est de 1547. Elle est en effet dédiée à Gabriel de Luetz, baron d’Aramon . . . On en connait l’editeur Andrea Arrivabene mais non l’auteur. Ce dernier qui a utilisé, à sa volonté l’édition de Bibliander, s’est aussi servi des commentaires faits par Widmanstetter, qui rapproche sans cesse Coran et littérature hébraique notamment kabbalistique. L’auteur se situe ainsi en écrivant f. 22v: Della vivanda di questo pesce se ne danno gioco i Thalmudisti: ma li cabalisti come misterio recondito il manifestano: ne voglio tacere quello che dice il cardinale Aleandro a gioco a M. Zematto Rabi Arabo preso in Africa, e presentato a Clemente VII dal quale battezzato si ste à Roma tre anni, poi nel sacco si rifuggi: e rifecessi Turco come mi rifferi M. Pietro Aleandro mio zio che allora si ritrovava a Roma, il quale Zematto domandato dal Cardinale: perche piu piacque a Cristo il pesce che altro cibo, rispose molte cose che il poco luogo non me lo consente riferire, poi soggionse a burla: vedi come il Messia non ha voluto ingannare li suoi discepoli della spettatione di questo convito. L’auteur de la famille d’Aleandro confond d’une part Zematto et Jean Leon, et d’autre part le cardinal Aleandre et Gilles de Viterbe. L’histoire du Leviathan a été en effet consignéè par Widmanstetter, et étudiée par Perles. . . .” F. Secret, “Guillome Postel et les etudes arabes à la Renaissance,” Arabica, 9 (1962), p. 21; id., I cabbalisti cristiani del Rinascimento (Rome 2001), pp. 117, 129. Zemon Davis adds: “Come ha sostenuto anche Francois Secret questa è sicuramente una versione delle vicende di al-Hasan al-Wazzan, incrociate con il nome dell’ebreo Zematus; vi è in aggiunta una confusione riguardo al papa coinvolto, giacché non si ha notizia di alcun arabo istruito catturato in Africa e battezzato a Roma da Clemente VII.” Zemon Davis, La doppia vita di Leone l’Africano, cit., p. 328. 5 H. Volgenstein and P. Rieger, Geschichte der Juden in Rom (Berlin 1895), II, pp. 92, 260. 6 A. Berliner, Geschichte der Juden in Rom (Zurich and New York 1987). 7 J. Perles, Beiträge zur Geschichte der hebräischen und aramäischen Studien (Munich 1884), p. 186. 8 V. Risco, Historia de los Judios (Barcelona 1944). 9 I. Zinberg, History of Jewish Literature: Italian Jewry in the Renaissance Era, B. Martin (transl.) (New York 1974), p. 54.



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But who exactly was Zematus, Jewish scholar in the service of Cardinal Egidio da Viterbo? What was his cultural background? Where did his roots lie? Many are of the opinion that he was a native of Africa. The documentation of the 16th-century Jewish notaries of Rome published by Kenneth Stow,10 the legal documents kept in the State Archive of Latina, and other notarial contracts coming from various centres of the State of the Church, such as Terracina, most of which have been published,11 when cross-referenced with legal documentation from Sicilian archives from the end of the 15th century allow us today to outline a profile of this singular personage, to put him into context as far as his family and geographical origins are concerned, and to reconstruct from those details his existential journey through 16th-century Rome. I will retrace this existential journey backwards, starting from his presence in the Sicilian community in Rome, the Schola siculorum de Urbe.12 From 1530 onwards, Michele Zumat, or Zemmatto doctor iuris hebraici et medicine, appears to be the most prestigious personage in his community, whose skills and arbitration as a rabbi and judge are requested by members of other foreign Jewish communities in Rome. On 30 May 1537, he obtained exemptions from tax payments and from wearing the Jewish distinguishing mark: Michaeli Zemat hebreo habitatori alme Urbis nostre, viam veritatis agnoscere et agnitam custodire, volentes tibi qui, sicut accepimus, iuris hebraici et medicine doctor existi, specialem gratiam facere, auctoritate apostolica tenore presentium te a quibusvis decimis, vigesimis, angariis, perangariis, collectis, tallis et exactionibus, tam presentibus quam futuris . . . eximimus et liberamus ac immune, exemptum et liberum esse et fore declaramus ad defferendum signum per ebreo predictos deferri solitum nullatenus teneri volumus . . . nec non immunitatem, exemptionem, concessionem, declarationem.13

In the documentation of the Jewish notaries of Rome, he is referred to as the hakham shalem Rabbi Michele Zemat ha-Rofeh,14 Abir ha-Rofeim, Rabbi Michele Zemat of Sabato Sicilian,15 and ha-Gaon Michele di Sabato.

10 K. Stow, The Jews in Rome (Leiden-New York-Cologne 1995), II. 11 P.L. De Rossi, La comunità ebraica di Terracina (sec. XVI) (Cori [Latina] 2004); C. Beatrice, “Gli Ebrei a Terracina nel Rinascimento,” Dimensioni e problemi della ricerca storica 2 (2004), pp. 77–97. 12 On this subject, cfr, A. Esposito and M. Procaccia, “La schola siculorum de Urbe: la fine della storia,” in Italia Judaica (Rome 1995), pp. 412–422. 13 S. Simonsohn, The Apostolic See and the Jews, Documents 1522–1538 (Toronto 1990), IV, Doc. 1832, p. 2068. 14 Stow, The Jews in Rome, cit., I, Doc. 826, 19 May 1543. 15 Ibid., Doc. 861, 9 Kislev, November 1548, p. 354.

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In 1539, the documents record one of his halakhic rulings relating to a dispute between the Scola francese of Rome and the Scola Catalana e Aragonese concerning the stringency (humrah) vis-à-vis his ban on sermons during the Shavuoth holiday. The Italian Rabbi Jehudah Piattelli and the Sicilian Rabbi Michele di Sabato Zumat are being asked to rule concerning ritual matters.16 This shows that Michele Zumat was held in high esteem by all of the foreign Jewish communities of Rome that formed part of Universitas hebreorum forensium et ultramontanorum in Urbe existentium, that is Communitas ultramontanorum ebreorum Urbis, which had its own officials and welfare institutions separate from those of the Roman Jews.17 In one case, the fattori appoint Rabbi Michele Zumat and Benedetto di Joab to investigate a taxation dispute between the community and Isac Zarfati.18 In the same documentation, we find several contracts in which young Roman Jews are employed by Michele Zumat for a few scudi, and in some cases, Rabbi Michele pays no salary but teaches the young boy Torah.19 It is possible that he ran a school of scribes, since it is known that he kept a collection of kabbalistic texts.20 We know the names of Rabbi Michele’s children: his daughter Mazal Tov, his sons Benedetto21 and Jehuda,22 who was married to Fresca Rosa,23 and their daughter Caradonna.24 In 1536, Mazal Tov, a business partner in the money-lending bank of Moise di Meir and Joshua Fortien’s, sells the latter her half of the cazagà (tenure), for the price of 15 scudi.25 All 16 Ibid., Doc. 384, 15 Sivan, eve of Shavuoth 1539, p. 146; see also the note of the author: “Apart from the intrinsic interest in this aspect of ritual behavior, it is striking that an Italian and a Sicilian Zamat are being asked to rule on a matter of ritual affecting Sephardim and the quasi-Ashkenazic francesi (Jews of Provence).” 17 See A. Esposito, “Gli ebrei di Roma prima del ghetto: nuovi spunti,” in Monaci, ebrei, santi, S. Boesch Gajano (ed.) (Rome 2008), pp. 377–393. 18 Stow, The Jews in Rome, cit., I, Doc. 818, 23 April 1543, p. 337. 19 Ibid., see for example: Doc. 873, 25 December 1548, p. 360; Doc. 951, 28 Tishri 1549, p. 391; II, Doc. 1523, 1 May 1554, p. 655: “Prudentia di Pitiglano apprentised her son Benedetto to serve in the house of Rabbi Michele ha-Rofeh di Sabato Zama, who will teach the young boy Torah.” 20 See note 6. 21 Stow, The Jews in Rome, cit., II, Doc. 1622, 8 October 1554. 22 Ibid., I, Doc. 375, 5 May 1539, 432, December 1539. 23 Ibid., Doc. 566, 16 August 1541, 1 September 1541, 734, September 1542, 743, 27 October 1542. 24 Ibid., Doc. 260, 12 February 1538: Marriage of Caradonna, daughter of Jehuda di Rabbi Michele ha-Rofeh, to Maskil Sabato, son of Jacob di Zerah di Capua. The bride’s dowry was 150 scudi. 25 Ibid., Doc. 60, 29 August 1536, p. 23.



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the members of Rabbi Michele’s family worked in the money-lending and interest sector. In 1538, an argument between father and daughter regarding a loan26 is resolved, thanks to the intervention of Rabbi Jehuda and Rabbi Sabato as arbitrators.27 They make Mazal Tov Zumat pay her father 30 scudi, at a rate of 2 scudi a month without interest.28 Another important family unit consisted of Vita Zumat’s children: Samuele, Joseph, his wife Dolce, and Isaac Zumat who was involved in banking together with his son Vita and lived between Rome and Terracina. In 1533, Isaac and Emanuel Salomonis of Veroli, who were probably also Sicilian, their families and associates are granted by Pope Clement VII the right to lend money for five years at interest, through a bank or without one.29 During the first thirty years of the 16th century, his son, Vito of Sciacca from Terracina, seems to have been a moneylender, together with other Jews of Sciacca such as Vita Tonnina and Donato Ginni.30 It is significant that legal contracts kept in Terracina referred to Michele’s cousin Isaac Zumat using the term protus sinagoge, which designated the administrators of the Jewish communities in Sicily, and not as fattore or anteposto, the terms normally used in mainland Italy. Furthermore, he is procurator of the Jewish University (i.e., community).31 In 1533, he rents a 26 Ibid., 22 April 1538, p. 102. 27 Ibid., Doc. 277. 28 Ibid., Doc. 278. 29 Simonsohn, The Apostolic See (1522–1538), cit., IV, Doc. 1620, Rome 2 September 1533, p. 1872. In 1538, Isaac receives the licence to lend money ad personam for six years, ibid. Doc. 1886, p. 2105; in 1544, for three years in partnership with Mosè di Pontecorvo and Paziele de Crescerello, ibid., V, Doc. 2457, p. 2451. 30 On Isaac Zumat and his son Vito of Sciacca, see also P.L. De Rossi, La comunità ebraica di Terracina (sec. XVI), cit., pp. 34, 35, 37, who writes: “Vita Zamat, probabilmente figlio di Isac Zamat, nel 1542 paga 10 carlini per la Vicesima corrente.” Donato Ginni is named as ebreo di Lipari but we now that the family came from Sciacca in the 15th century. Ibid. Appendix I, notarile Terracina, p. 77, not. Andrea Giovanni Agnise, prot. 6, c. 28v–29r, 15 April 1518: “Giovanni Antonio Cole Lelli si dichiara debitore di Donato Ginni ebreo di Lipari per una somma di 124 ducati, prestati al padre Bello Cole lelli a promette di restituirli nel seguente modo: 40 subito altri 40 entro settembre e il residuo entro dicembre.” On other incidents of moneylending, see Docs. 129, 132. 31 “Isac Zamat Proto e procuratore dell’Università degli ebrei di Terracina, Sabatuccio de Paziele, Bonomo, Venturello e Josef Musardo raggiungono un accordo con Ventura di Sabato di Fondi, abitante a Gaeta, che si impegna a terminare il pavimento della sinagoga degli ebrei di Terracina per la somma già pattuita di 12 ducati.” Ibid., Doc. 148, p. 81, not. Gaspare Mare prot. 13, c. 28v, 3 November 1532, doc. 153, p. 82, not. Gaspare Mare, prot. 13, c. 38r: “Crescenzio phisicus Sabbatuccio di Bonanno, Emanuele di Veroli, Musardo di Mosè di Anna, Stancacervo, Abramo ispano, ebrei residenti in Terracina, autorizzano Isac Zamat procuratore degli ebrei ad affittare a Marco Anzillotto una vigna posta in località Ventareccia e una canapina in località Fontana Grande.” See Doc. 154, 155, 157, p. 83. On Isac Zamat protus, see Beatrice, “Gli ebrei a Terracina,” cit., p. 86.

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house in the Saint Lorenzo quarter of Terracina.32 Isaac Zumat of Haim is, together with Rabbi Michele ha-Rofeh, one of the community members who convened in the dispute between Scola Siciliana and Scola Nova in Rome,33 and in December 1550, “Benedetto di Cori of the Scola Tempio gave a receipt to Isach Zamat Parnas of the Scola Siciliana for two log (measures) of oil” for “the rental owed by the Scola Siciliana to the Scola Tempio.”34 The Sicilian Jews bring their customs and good qualities to Terracina, as some of the marriage contracts show.35 From the same documentation, it emerges that several Jewish families from western Sicily, most notably from Sciacca, Caltabellotta, Palermo, and Trapani, had settled both in Rome and in Terracina following the expulsion. The entire Zumat clan had moved from Sciacca, and they were able to make a name for themselves in the two communities of Rome and Terracina, thanks to their cultural and economic initiative. We can recognise other Jews from Sciacca by their surnames, which they kept when they moved there, despite the fact that the notaries of the area often modified those names. Other Jews, referred to as siculi took on, as their surname, their last city of residence in the Kingdom of Naples, and so one can deduce by the strong ties between them that they came from the same area. For example, the Zumats and the de Tripolis36 are referred to as natives of Africa when in fact they came from Sciacca and Caltabellotta.37 32 De Rossi, La Comunità ebraica di Terracina, cit., Doc. 161, not. Gaspare Mare, prot. 13, cc. 72r–v, 14 August 1533. 33 Stow, The Jews in Rome, cit., II, Doc. 1343, 6 May 1553, p. 569. 34 Ibid., Doc. 1072, December 1550, p. 442. 35 On this subject, Chiara Beatrice points out: “Spesso nei testamenti compare il riferimento alla dote o al corredo delle giovani nubile della famiglia: così Ricca sicula lascia alla nipote Stella tria para linteamina de melioribus.” Beatrice, “Gli ebrei a Terracina,” p. 87. On Jewish women, marriage, and dowry in Sicily, see A. Scandaliato, L’ultimo canto di Ester (Palermo 1999). 36 De Rossi, La Comunità ebraica di Terracina, cit., Appendix I, p. 52, not. Andrea Giovanni Agnise, prot. 4, c. 141r: “Stella di Salomone de Mogazara, ebrea di Mazara fa testamento e nomina suo erede universale il figlio legittimo Salomone di Busac de Tripoli, a condizione che in caso di morte senza figli legittimi gli dovrà succedere la sorella di lei Gaiella o i suoi eredi.” 37 On the de Tripoli family, Kenneth Stow observes: “Ethnically, Rome had become quite differentiated, Jewish immigrants had arrived from Provence, from Germany, from Spain, and from Sicily. It is sometimes said they arrived from North Africa, too. This is not impossible. However, many with North African names such as Tripolesi were members of the Sicilian synagogue, and ancestors with this name were registered as members of Palermo’s Jewish community as early as the first half of the 15th century. It would hard to call such Tripolesi immigrants from Africa.” In fact I find, in notarial contracts from Sciacca and Caltabellotta, the family name de Tripoli. For example, Joseph de Tripoli of Caltabellotta,



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Between Rome and Terracina, and most probably in other areas of the Patrimonio di S. Pietro in Tuscia,38 we find the following families, natives of the land between Sciacca and Caltabellotta: Jubaira,39 Ginni, De Saduni, De Benedictis, de Peregrinis, De Mazara, Sonina, Shouani (De Galiono),40 Belli, Menasce, Termi, Malti, Sciachi, Aurifice, Balbo, Menachem, Cuvili, Tunnina, Lu Notaru, Gibra, Rizu, and Greco.41 It is likely that the De Messanas and the De Saragusias, among others, were also natives of Sciacca and Caltabellotta, where the presence of families with these surnames is well documented.42 It all leads to the supposition that the members of the Jewish community in Sciacca and Caltabellotta, who left the island in 1492, passed through the Kingdom of Naples while travelling to Rome to live. The departure of some members of the Summato family is certified by the legal agreement between the proprietors of the boats and the Jews who were embarking for Naples.43 Xibitello de Summato, that is, the father of Rabbi Michele Zumat, left Sciacca on 30 September 1492.44

second husband of Janna Levi and brother of the first Muxa de Tripoli, Sezione di Archivio di Stato di Sciacca, notai defunti di Caltabellotta, not. P. Verderame reg. 13, Doc. 28 June, 30 June, 18 July, 1463. 38 See A. Esposito, “La presenza ebraica in una regione pontificia nel Tardo Medioevo: il Patrimonio di S. Pietro in Tuscia e Viterbo,” in Italia Judaica (Rome 1998), pp. 187–203; on Michael Zumat, cfr. Ead, Credito, ebrei, monte di pietà a Roma tra Quattro e Cinquecento, in “Roma moderna e contemporanea,” X, 3 (sett.-dic. 2002), pp. 559–582. 39 De Rossi, La comunità ebraica di Terracina, cit., App. I, p. 52, not. Andrea Giovanni Agnise, prot. 4, cc. 146v–147r, “Malzatto ebrea siciliana, vedova di Mardoch di Elia Abrami siculo, chiede al podestà e giudice che le vengano consegnati da Josue de Jubaira ebreo siciliano ora abitante a Terracina i beni dei figli ed eredi del marito da lui ritenuti perché nominato tutore insieme a Malzatto dallo stesso Mardoch in un testamento fatto a Napoli.” On the Jubaira family in Sciacca and Caltabellotta, and particularly an homonymous Josue Jubaira in 1492, see A. Scandaliato, Judaica Minora Sicula (Florence 2006), pp. 105, 112, 121. 40 See M. Perani, “Le firme in giudeo-arabo degli ebrei di Sicilia,” Hebraica hereditas G. Lacerenza (ed.) (Naples 2005), pp. 143–235, where the name Summatus in giudeo-Arabic is equivalent to ‫ טּאּמּזּ‬or ‫טּאּמּוּסּ‬. 41 Ibid. 42 Ibid. 43 Archivio Di Stato di Palermo, notai defunti di Sciacca, not. F. Giuffrida, reg. 1390, cc. 24v–25r, 26r, 12 September 1492: “Honorabilis Petrus Baptista Casanova januensis pro nobile Gabriele de Perino januense patrono navis in portu terre Sacce” rent the ship to the following Jews of Sciacca to go to Naples: De Galfa, Balam, Summatus (Xamuel), Tunnina, Lu Notaru, Azara, Yoel, Sieli, Summatus (Robinus), Balbu, de Messana, de Girgenti, Saragusa, Rizu Lu Bellu, Jubaira, Xej, Copiu, and Malta; cc. 68r–v–69r, 22 September, the Jews de Bendicto, De Galiono, de Actono, Lazara, Summatus (Gabriel), de Saduni, Tavormina, Summatus (Xibitello) board a ship belonging to Ambrogio De Nigro ianuensis. 44 Ibid., cc. 95r–v.

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The Summato of Sciacca and the Zumats of Rome and Terracina belonged to the same family, as demonstrated by their signatures in giudeo-Arabic on legal documents in Sciacca that have been studied by Mauro Perani.45 The Summato family members were well-known doctors and rabbis in Sciacca, who dealt in the Sicilian grain trade or were bankers like Gabriel.46 They were also property owners in the heart of the Jewish quarter.47 Rabbi Michele Summato di Sabato’s great uncle, Doctor Busacca, that is to say Isaac, with his son Joseph was the founder of the Jewish hospital of the prosperous Sciacca community, as we can see from their particularly interesting wills, which clearly testify to the fact that they were a wealthy family.48 We can also discover more about their culture and the links between other members of the oligarchy of Sciacca. The Summato of Sciacca were relatives of the Shouanis,49 or De Galiono in the Sicilian language, who also settled in Rome and Terracina. This is confirmed by Roman documents.50 The members of the Zumat family in Rome during the 16th century continue to bear the same names as the Summato family in 15th-century Sciacca, who evidently also preserved also the tradition of papponimia (that is, the custom to give the sons the name of the grandfather): Vita, 45 Cfr., note 38. 46 Gabriele de Summato was a business partner of the banker of Genoa, Giorgio de Podio, in Sciacca, Sezione di Archivio di Stato di Sciacca, notai defunti, not. G. Matera reg. 83, 1493–94, cc. 93r. 47 Ibid. notai defunti di Caltabellotta, reg. 11, cc. 57r-v, 12 November 1458. Division of inheritance among the heirs of magister Joseph de Summatu: the widow Gaudiosa, and the sons magister Busacca de Summato, Micaele de Summatu, Vita de Summatu, and Perna, wife of Gabriel de Jubaira. 48 Archivio di Stato di Palermo, notai defunti di Sciacca, not. F. Giuffrida, reg. 1386, cc. 137r–138r. 49 Ventura, daughter of the doctor magister Busacca Summato was the wife of the Jewish banker of Sciacca, Robino de Galiono. Archivio di Stato di Palermo, notai defunti di Sciacca, not. F. Giuffrida, reg. 1390, 7 nov. 1492, c. 218v. About the economic activity of Robino de Galiono, cfr. V. Mulè, Mercanti, banchieri e prestatori ebrei nella Sicilia del XV secolo. Profilo, attività, relazioni familiari e sociali, University of Pisa, doctoral thesis (2004–2006), cap. II, p. 58, “Un importante documento del 1503 consente di ricostruire in modo incisivo l’articolazione del patrimonio della famiglia de Galiono a Sciacca: esso si era ampliato . . . con l’acquisizione di numerosi beni della famiglia de Summato. Tutti gli ebrei siciliani che avevano una situazione patrimoniale complessa, e numerosi beni da recuperare, dopo essere partiti per un esilio forzato . . . ritornarono nell’isola per recuperare parte della proprietà.” 50 An example: Anna the daughter of the late Giuseppe Shovani Siciliano appoints her husband, Angelo son of the late Jehuda di Viterbo, to represent her in her claim against Rabbi Michele ha-Rofeh son of the late. Sabato Siciliano concerning the inheritance (she claims is due to her) from her father. The act is witnessed by two Christians.” Stow, The Jews in Rome, I, Doc. 1340, 4 May 1553, p. 568.



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Sabeth Summatus (15th century)

Joseph (doctor) oo Gaudiosa

Isac (Busacca doctor) oo Stella

Juda oo Stella

Michele oo Perna

Vita Perna oo Gabriel de Jubaira

Altadonna oo Muxa Lu Medico

Joseph (doctor) Gaudiosa oo Busacca de Saragusia

Bonaventura oo Roobino de Galiono Ricca oo Muxa (banker) Vita Abati of Caltabellotta Isac (moneylender and protus in Terracina, 16th century) Matassia (moneylender)

Vito of Sciacca Benedetto (moneylender)

Xibitello Michele ha-Rofeh di Sabato siciliano 16th century Mazal Tov (moneylender)

Jehuda

Figure 1. From Sicily to Rome: The Zumat family (15th‒16th century)

Isaac, Xibiteni alias Sabbetay, Michael, Joseph, mentioned in the two wills of the late 15th century, in which the different stock of the same family can be recognised. A certain Michele Zumat is mentioned in the will of his brother Busacca in 1488,51 together with his children Vita and Xibiteni, or Sabbetay. The entire family left Sciacca on 30 September 1492, on Ambrogio De Nigro of Genova’s boat. Sabbetay, or Xibitello, took with him his children, including our very own Rabbi Michele ben Sabbetay Zumat, at that time only a boy of some ten years of age, and Vita Summato travelled with her son Busacca, none other than our Isaac protus et procurator of the Jewish community of Terracina.52 We cannot conclude this short account of such a personage as Rabbi Michele Zumat ha-Rofeh, a character who surely deserves further consideration, without mentioning the Jew Samuel Bulfarag, better known as Guglielmo Raimondo Moncada, alias Flavius Mitridathes. He came from Caltabellotta and Sciacca, and in previous decades, had become well known at the papal court, most notably for his vast knowledge of oriental languages, Greek and Arabic culture, astronomy and astrology, and the kabbalah. Despite being a convert, he had maintained contact with

51 Cfr., note 45. 52 Cfr., note 41.

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his roots; furthermore his strong point was, in Renaissance Italy, the cultural baggage with which he had left Sicily, that is, the Jewish culture and knowledge of the Oriental languages.53 Moncada had opened the cultural route to other Jewish intellectuals of Sciacca and Caltabellotta who, like Rabbi Michele Zumat, had formed a group on the island that was open to Islamic and Middle Eastern cultural influences in that extraordinary Mediterranean koinè that represented the cultural mix of which Sicily was an integral part. Other scholars had the opportunity to offer their expertise and knowledge in the heart of Christianity, an area that demands further examination. Flavius Mitridathes, pioneer, revealed the patrimony of his orientalist knowledge and his studies on the kabbalah of Abulafia to the culture of humanism in Italy and the rest of Europe; Rabbi Michele Zumat, who was younger, with his collection of kabbalistic texts was in the service of Cardinal Egidio da Viterbo, one of the Christian intellectuals most open to Jewish culture and to mysticism in particular. This new information indirectly allow us to put these two scholars into better context and to encourage new research regarding the relationship between Italy and Sicily during the Renaissance. In a previous essay, I indicated the possibility of cultural contacts between Flavius Mitridathes and Annio da Viterbo. Now, the certainty that a rabbi, a native of Sciacca, was preceptor of Cardinal Egidio da Viterbo makes the hypothesis more likely and invites us to study in greater detail the role and presence of Sicilian Jews in the papal court during the 15th and 16th centuries. Appendix The will of magister medicus Busacca Summato of Sciacca Archivio di Stato di Palermo, notai defunti di Sciacca, not. Ferdinando Giuffrida, reg. 1386, 9 November 1485, cc. 137r–138r. Testamur quod presens coram nobis magister Busac Summatus / judeus medicus de Sacca iacens in lecto egrotus corpore sanus tamen mentis et racionabilis intellectus existens in sua bona / et perfecta memoria

53 On the Sicilian origins of Moncada, see Scandaliato, Judaica Minora Sicula; Guglielmo Raimondo Moncada alias Flavio Mitridate. Un ebreo converso siciliano, Atti del Convegno Internazionale, Caltabellotta (Agrigento), 23–24 October 2004, Palermo 2008.



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articulariter loquens timens divinum iudicium / repentinum et horam mortis incertam et cum nihil certius morte / et nihil incertius hora mortis dubitans ne forte ab hoc seculo / decederet intestatus volens propterea de bonis suis temporalibus / disponere ne inter successores suos lis aliqua oriri possit presens / suum nuncupativum condidit testamentum per manus mei / infrascripti notarii in primis dictus testator instituit et / sollemniter ordinavit suum heredem universalem in omnibus bonis / suis mobilibus et stabilibus iuribus et accionibus universis / ubicumque existentibus et melius apparentibus Joseph eius / filium legitimum et naturalem natum ex eo et Stilla eius uxore / item instituit et sollemniter ordinavit suam heredem / particularem Bonaventuram uxorem Robini de Galiono eius / filiam natam ex eo et et dicta Stilla eius uxore in dotibus / sibi assignatis et insuper in unciis quatuor in pecuniis et in una / chucca panni de visito excludens eam ab omni alio iure / hereditatis sue et hoc pro omni iure eidem Bonaventure/ competente et competituro in bonis dicti testatoris item legavit / dicto Robino mantum unum cum caputeo panni de visito item / instituit et sollemniter ordinavit suam heredem particularem / Riccam uxorem Muxe Abati eius filiam natam ex eo et dicta Stilla eius uxore in dotibus promissis et assignatis et in super / in unciis viginti quinque in pecunia in quibus intelligantur / uncias tresdecim quas dixit debere recipere a dictis / Muxa et Ricca pro quibus dixit habere certa pignora que pignora / post eius obitum restituantur dictis Muxe et Ricce eius uxori / quo Lagaina filia dictorum Muxe et Ricca pervenerit ad / maritum que pignora / post suum obitum restituantur dictis Muxe et Stille tempore / quo Lagaina filia dictorum Muxe et Ricce pervenerit ad / maritum que pignora conservent in posse dicte Stille eius / uxoris usque ad tempus maritagii dicte Lagaine item instituit / et sollemniter ordinavit suam heredem particularem dictam Riccam / eius filiam in una chucca panni de visito et hoc pro omni iure / eidem Ricce competenti et competituro supra bonis dicti testatoris / item voluit et mandavit dictus testator quod si dicta / Ricca tentaverit questionem contra dictum Joseph filium suum et heredem universalem quod cadat a dicta hereditate particulare/ et maneat instituta heres particularis in tareno uno Item / voluit et mandavit dictus testator quod dicta / Ricca habere debeat uncias duodecim ad complimentum / dictorum unciarum viginti quinque infra annis / duos numerandos a die obitus dicti testatoris Itaque / electio sit dicti sui eredi universalis si vult dare dictas uncias duodecim vel unciam unam et tarenos / sex annuales redditi dicte Ricce Item istituit / et sollemniter ordinavit suam erede particularem Gaudiosa / eius filiam natam ex eo et dicta Stilla eius uxore in / dotibus sibi promissis et assignatis et in super

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in uncias decem / in pecunia et in una chucca panni de visito excludens eam / ab omni alio iure hereditatis sue Item legavit Busacce / de Saragusia marito dicte Gaudiose eius genero cla / midem unam cum caputeo panni de visito / et hoc pro / omni iure eidem Gaudiose competenti et competituro in / bonis dicti testatoris que Gaudiosa habere debeat / dictas uncias decem infra annos duos numeran / dos a die obitus dicti testatoris in antea Item voluit et mandavit dictus testator quod omnia bona stabilia dicti / testatoris sint et esse debeant vinculata et vadant / de herede in heredem usque ad infinitum nec iura ipsacapi / possint a posse dicti sui filii heredis universalis pro aliquo / debito fideiussione debitis factis et . . . faciendis / Item legavit Micaeli Summatu eius fratri uncias duas / et clamidem unam cum caputeo panni de visito infra / annos duos dandas dictas uncias duas numerandos / a die obitus dicti testatoris in antea Item legavit / Altadonne uxori qn. Muxe Lu Medicu eius sorori / unciam unam in pecunia et chuccam unam panni de visito / Item legavit David de Medico eius nepoti gramaglam / unam cum caputeo panni de visito Item legavit Vite Summato / eius fratri gramaglam unam cum caputeo panni de visito / item legavit Vite et Xibitelli de Summato eius nepotibus et cuilibet ipsorum capputeum unum panni de / visito Item legavit Jone Summato capputeum unum / panni de visito Item legavit hospitali judeorum terre / Sacce frabicato et facto per dictum testatorem ut dixit tarenos / quindecim annuales redditus qui tareni quindecim / expendantur quolibet anno per dictum suum heredem universalem / heredes et successores suos in perpetuum in beneficium marammatis / dicti hospitalis et in empcionem raube pro dicto hospitali / et voluit dictus eius heres universalis complere / debeat quemdam murum dicti hospitalis de presenti / dirutum et voluit dictus testator quod hospitale / predictum institutum per ipsum testatorem administrare / regere et gubernare per dictum suum heredem universalem / heredes suos et successores in perpetuum et si dictus Joseph / eius filius et heres mori contingerit / sine filiis de suo corpore legitime descendentibus / tunc in eo casu substituit sibi heredes in bonis spectantibus / ad ipsum testatorem dictas filias suas pro equali porcione / et . . . bona eorum hereditatis particularis facta / eis per dictum testatorem Item legavit filiis dicti Robini / omnibus eius nepotibus sibi cuilibet ipsorum gramaglam / unam cum caputeo panni de visito Item legavit mischite / judeorum terre Sacce tarenos duodecim census quolibet anno in perpetuum / pro emendo oleum legavit pro dicta mischita quod oleum ematur / quolibet anno per suum heredem universalem eiusque heredes et successores / in perpetuum Ita quod dicti tareni duodecim census sint et consegnare / penes dictum suum heredem universalem eiusque heredes et



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successores / presente ad hec dicta Stilla existente in lecto egrota corpore / sana tamen mente et racionabilis intellectus eius uxore / et presente testamento confirmante et omnia et singula / in eo contenta et ratificante et approbante et laudante Ita / quod dicta legata et relicta intelligantur tam super / bonis dicti mariti Busacce quam super bonis dicte Stille / Item voluit et mandavit dictus testator quod si dicta Stilla / eius uxor legaverit aliquod dicte Ricce post presentem testamentum / ultra dictas uncias viginti quinque quod ipsa Ricca cadat / a dicta hereditate particolare et remaneat ac tamen . . . / heres particularis in unciis duabus Item legavit / Perne uxori Micaeli Summatu chuccam unam panni de / visito Et hec fuit et est eius ultima / voluntas et suum ultimum nuncupativum testamentum / cassatis et annullatis omnibus aliis testamentis et presente / testamento in suo robore perdurante Item legavit summam / infrascripto notario pro confecione et copia presentis testamenti ducatos / duos etc. hec fuit et est eius ultima voluta. Ego dominus Antonius de Piscibus archipresbiter dicte terre testor Ego Paulus Bonasorus testor Ego Gaspar de Garro testor Ego Jacobus Luconti testor Three signatures in Judaeo-Arabic: Sadias Accavu Sansonu Balam Vita Summatu

The Angevins of Naples and the Jews Joseph Shatzmiller A few years ago, the French School of Rome held a colloquium about the “Angevins of Naples.” My task was to report on the policy towards the Jews of the first three Angevins, the two Charles’s and “Robert the Wise.”1 Reviewing the unequal documentation in terms of quantity and quality, I realised that the use of the singular “policy” was improper and that it was much more accurate to use the plural “policies” when considering the Angevins. In each of the three parts of the empire under consideration, namely Anjou, Provence, and Southern Italy, the same ruler may demonstrate contradicting attitudes. His successor may completely change the policies of his father. Charles the Second, for example, banished the Jews from the county of Anjou in the year 1289 but allowed those who were expelled, like the family Segre, live in tranquillity in neighbouring Provence.2 His son Robert the Wise boasted, when in power, that nobody in the world had granted the Jews as many privileges as he had.3 To expose these inconsistencies, which are not typical only to the Angevins, is an achievement in its own right, as it indicates the instability that marked Jewish life. When exploring in detail these ups and downs under the Angevins, we are able to offer solutions to problems that occupied historians in other parts of Europe at that time. In the following remarks, I could not cover all aspects of life during the century that precedes the Black Death; rather, I shall try to present aspects of Jewish existence that are shown in a particular light in the Angevin documentation. Starting with the legal status of the Jews, the discussion will examine the relationship between their self-government and the administration of Angevin taxation. The religion of the Jews and the astounding attitude of these northern rulers towards their religiosity will be the subject of

1 See my “Les Angevines ef les juifs de leurs états: Anjou, Naples et Provence,” in L’Ētat Angevin: Pouvoir, culture et société entre XIII et XIV siècle, André Vauchez et al. (eds.) (Rome 1998), pp. 289–300. 2 An English translation of the letter of expulsion was published by R. Chazan, Church, State and Jews in the Middle Ages (New York 1980), pp. 313–317. 3 See R. Caggese, Roberto d’Angio’e il sui tempi, I (Florence 1922), p. 309.

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the ensuing paragraphs. Time permitting; I will try to close my discourse by presenting the rôle of some Jewish intellectuals at the courts of these sovereigns. Governance over the Jews constituted a bone of contention between the newly arrived northerners, the Angevins, and the local holders of political power, be they members of the nobility, prelates of the Church, or leaders of the emerging urban aristocracy. The Angevins, who were not well received in the territories of southern France and Italy, had to struggle manu militari to impose their rule and were even ousted in 1282 from Sicily by popular revolt.4 The Provencales were quick to express their unhappiness. Marseille, the radiant port city, gave the newcomers a particularly difficult time.5 Three military confrontations were required in order to subdue the city and finally make it part of the empire. Each of these confrontations was brought to a close by a peace treaty. These documents each contained a paragraph that dealt specifically with the question of governance over the Jews of the city. In the first two treaties of 1252 and 1256, respectively, which emerged from a partial and indecisive victory of the Angevins, the Marseilles insisted that the Jews belonged to the city and were to pay taxes to its municipal government. Things changed considerably in the third agreement of 1262, the outcome of the Angevins’ crushing victory. The conquerors declared, “they are ours” and “belong to our treasury.”6 We have thus in Marseille a blatant example of the genesis of the status of Jews as “servants of the chamber.” The term servi camere is not used expressly in this treaty, but it will surface in other documents in the archives of Naples. To better understand the term, we have to abandon for the moment the judicial path that focused on the diminishing legal status of the Jews, which the studies of Guido Kisch and his followers made us walk down for years, and concentrate instead on taxation and treasury account books. No sign of servitude or personal enslavement can be detected in the rich archives of Provence, be it in the notarial registers, the court rolls,

4 Cf. J. Dunbabin, Charles I of Anjou: Power Kingship and State-Making in ThirteenthCentury Europe (London–New York 1998), pp. 46–54 and passim. 5 See my “Structures communautarise juives a Marseille: autour d’un contrat de 1278,” Provence Historique 29 (1979), pp. 33–45, and 30 (1980), pp. 218–219. 6 Ibid. p. 42: “Dominus comes. . . . as voluntatem suam in ipsis judeis et bonis eorum possit quistam et talliam facere.”



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or the governmental files.7 Hundreds of legal cases in which Jews were involved as claimants or defendants show no signs of discrimination. Judges adhered to the premises of the revived Roman law, so that Jews were acquitted or punished with the frequency that was common in those times. Equal treatment is also evident in the sums of money they were awarded when they won a case or were required to pay when they lost. Given that their business activities required them to turn to the legal system more than the average citizen, it is no wonder that the Jews were well aware of established procedures and hired the services of lawyers when necessary. At times, Jews were not required by the tribunal to take an oath, but if obliged, they would put their hand on the “five books of Moses,” the way Christians would on the Gospels. The More Judaico was taken in the synagogue, but only on rather exceptional occasions. From a rare document discovered by the late Hubert Houben (dated 7 September 1280),8 we learn that the Jews of Nicotera in Calabria actually preferred to bring cases to the city courts (in foro Christiano). The justiciar of the province was therefore ordered not to compel them to choose a judge from among themselves. Several Provencal documents record cases of Jews appearing in ecclesiastical court, at times suing their coreligionists. A source from the time claims they preferred handling their cases in these courts. Losing their claims or being found at fault would result in ecclesiastical excommunication, which had real social consequences.9 Admittedly, the study of taxation raises little emotion in scholars. Trying to historicize the Round Table of King Arthur provides much greater enthusiasm. But Jewish historians neglect the subject of taxation at their peril, for taxation—as I shall try to prove—no less than their religiosity was responsible for the Jews’ cohesion as a group during the critical period of the Middle Ages and early modern times. Taxation should perhaps claim the lions’ share in the history of Jewish survival. The Angevin case may serve as an example.

7 In the following paragraphs I rely on the findings published in my Recherches sur las communauté juive de Manosque (1241–1329) (Paris 1973), pp. 65–118. 8 H. Houben, “Neue Quellen zur Geschichte der Juden und Sarazenen im Konigreich Sizilien (1275–1280),” Quellen und Forschungen aus italienischen Archiven und Bibliotheken, 74 (1994), pp. 335–35, in particular pp. 350–351. 9 Cf. W.C. Jordan, “Christian Excommunication of the Jews in the Middle Ages: A Restatement of the Issues,” Jewish History 7 (1986), pp. 31–38, and more recently N. Coulet, “Une question dispute: l’excommunication des Juifs,” Identités juives et chretiens. France méridionale XIV–XIX siècle: Etudes offerts a Rene Moulinas, G. Audisio et al. (eds.) (Aix 2003), pp. 29–38.

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A rare document pertaining to the county of Anjou reveals that the Jews of the region had to pay a collective annual tax of 500 pounds. Anjou was by then not the only place that such a tax was imposed on the Jews. Labelled Tallia judeorum, it was a West European version of the poll tax, the famous Gisia, which Jews had to pay in Muslim lands.10 Indeed, in Arabic-speaking Sicily, it will be referred to for centuries as the Gisia Judeorum. Towards the end of the first half of the 13th century, efforts are made by authorities to establish a similar taxation system in Germany and England. Other counties and countries followed in the centuries to come. As late as the 16th century, we see it in Italian principalities while in Poland, it existed well into the 18th century. In several principalities within the Germanic territories, the practice can to an end only with the Napoleonic Wars. As for the Angevin Empire, most of our information comes from the county of Provence. There, the tax seems to be introduced by the new leadership once they firmly established their rule in the 1270s. But the most detailed information comes from notarial deeds of 1330.11 By then, the Jews had established an elaborate administration to collect, both from individuals and from communities, the 2,000 pounds that they were required to pay yearly in two equal instalments. A special house in Aixen-Provence served as headquarters of the Universitas Judeorum and was staffed by six chosen administrators, two from each “land” into which the county was divided. The collection of monies, the loans that had been taken when there was a shortfall, and the interest that had to be paid all demanded much administrative effort. This institution existed until the expulsion of the Jews in 1500 and even beyond. None of the documents written by these administrators survived; we have to depend on notarial records to reconstruct the history of the institution. Whether the headquarters of the Jews of Provence tried to go beyond the imposition of taxes and, like the Polish “Parliament of Four Lands,” to intervene in other aspects of Jewish life is difficult to say. From the Angevin point of view, the Universitas Judeorum was a tax collection entity and nothing more. Jews had to belong to the counties’ community because such was the interest of the state. This is the reason why the government was ready to intervene when Jews left the city to avoid 10 See my “Encore sur la Tallia Judeorum,” in Rashi 1040–1990, Hommage a Ephraim E. Urbach, G. Sed-Rajna (ed.) (Paris 1993), pp. 589–597. 11 See the recent publication of N. Coulet, “La Taille des juifs de Provence sous Charles I,” Provence Historique 56 (2006), pp. 131–143, and the literature quoted there.



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taxation. Thus, the Angevin justiciar of the region of Ydrontes was ordered on 24 May 1279 to see to it that the Jews who abandoned Brindisi were brought back so they would participate in the payment of taxes along with their brethren. The injunction labels them servi camere nostre. A similar order was issued concerning the Saracens. They, too, were labelled servi camere nostre.12 The interest of the state in Jewish taxation is manifested as well in the case of converts to Christianity. State and Church did not see eye to eye in this respect. While the religious authorities saw in the conversion of a Jew a reason for festivity and public celebration, the state, which lost a precious taxpayer and analysed the situation in terms of feudal law, saw in it a case of treason. The convert, it reasoned, had changed his status and should be considered a rebel and punished for his act. If he were not in a position to negotiate a deal, all his property would be confiscated.13 In conciliar and synodal gatherings, the Church prelates raised their voices against what they considered a scandalous practice, a stick in the wheels of the chariot of Christianity. But the state took its time changing its ways, especially because this was just one instance where it was in confrontation with the Church. As for the unlucky converts, many of them ended their life in misery. The lucky ones would be accepted to a domus conversorum, where they did not fare much better.14 The unattractive prospect of converting to Christianity notwithstanding, some medieval Jews who converted to Christianity took great pleasure in denouncing their former brethren and their sacred books. The phenomenon is a permanent one in post-biblical history and flourishes today, perhaps more than ever, in western intellectual circles. Some of these converts managed to build a whole career out of their abhorrence. In the second half of the 13th century, a certain Paulus Christiani, born and educated in Provence, led a series of public debates in Catalonia and France, and tried to introduce limitations on the freedoms enjoyed by the Jews. According to one source, he arrived in France in 1269 or 1270 “from Lombardy.” He finished his life in the Dominican monastery of Taormina, perhaps before Sicily came under Spanish rule.15 A contemporary of his 12 Cf. Houban, “Neue Quellen,” pp. 350 and 352. 13 Cf. S. Grayzel, The Church and the Jews in the XIIIth Century, rev. ed. (New York 1966), pp. 15–18. See also the following note. 14 Cf. M. Adler, “The History of the Domus Conversorum,” in Jews of Medieval England (London 1939), pp. 279–379. 15 S. Buber (ed.), Schaare Zion. Beitrag zur Geschichte des Judenthums bis zum Jahre 1372 (Jaroslau 1885), p. 45 [Hebrew].

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by the name of Monteforte, a former rabbi (magister) in the synagogue of Trani, converted and also made accusations against Judaism and the Talmud. Documentation from 1267 and 1270 shows Monteforte pointing to the “Talmut, Carrboat and Sedur” as containing blasphemous remarks about Jesus and Mary. He managed to secure for himself an annual income of six golden ounces, the equivalent of 30 florins.16 Former Jews were at the heart of yet another confrontation between the Angevins (and other rulers) and the Church. It happened that some of them wished to return to their ancestors’ religion or at least to be buried in a Jewish cemetery.17 The Inquisition—a papal institution—saw in their relapse not only “dogs turning back to their vomit” but Christians who had abandoned their faith. Being, therefore, heretics they came under the Inquisition’s jurisdiction. However, it became common knowledge at the time that a handsome bribe could facilitate an arrangement with these guardians of the faith. The inquisitors, in other words were after money. This raised the ire of Charles the First, as seen in a letter signed in Rome on 6 March 1276 and sent to the administration in Provence,18 stating that he understood the inquisitor of the county, Brother Rocca, treated the Jews with much injustice, extorting from them a great sum of money “which belongs to us” (que nostra est et as nostrum curiam pertinebat). Also, he claimed in his letter that the Inquisition obliged Jews to wear the distinguishing mark and some of them had been thrown into jail. All of this, he wrote, must stop immediately. The prisoners should be released and no new marks (signa) should be imposed on the Jews. Further, he declared that in case of necessity, an appeal to the pope would be prepared. Some 14 or 15 years later, the next Angevin monarch, Charles the Second, decided to convert all the Jews of Southern Italy. The 16th-century Hebrew historian Shlomo Ibn Verga, in his Shevet Yehuda, knew about the event but mentioned only the Jews of Naples and Trani as subjects of the decree.19 An archival document from 1294 indicates, however, that the conversion covered localities all over the region. The document 16 Cf. N. Ferorelli, Gli ebrei nell’Italia meridionale dall’eta romana al secolo XII (Turin 1915), p. 54. 17 See the documents published in my “Paulus Christiani: Un aspect de son activité anti-juive,” in Hommage a Georges Vanda: Etudes d’histoire et de pensée juives, G. Nahon and C. Touati (eds.) (Louvain 1980), pp. 203–217. 18 Published by the Abbe Papon in his Histoire generale de Provence, 3 (Paris 1784), pp. 22–23, Doc. 15. 19 A. Schochat (ed.), The Book “Shevet Jehuda” of Shlomo Ibn Verga (Jerusalem 1947), pp. 66–67 [Hebrew].



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supplies us with numbers: Naples had 128 converts, Salerno 150, Capua 45, Manfredonia 75, Trani 310, Bari 72, and Taranto 172. Together with other localities, the total reached 1,300 persons.20 The numbers seem too small for this old and flourishing region and may give support to Verga’s claim that many Jews managed to escape before being brought to the baptismal fountain and even after. Ibn Verga admits that he does not know the reason for the persecution. He heard, nevertheless, that it had to do with an accusation of the desecration of the cross (Etz Yeshu). Another source, closer to the events (and rarely used by historians), provides another explanation.21 It is found in a sermon delivered in the Church of Santa Maria Novella in Florence in the year 1304 by the Dominican preacher Giordano da Rivalto (also known as da Pisa). He claims that it was rumours of Jewish ritual murder that enticed the Angevin to issue the decree and see that it was executed. The events happened around 1290 and some 8,000 Jews were involved. This time, the number seems to be much too high, but the order of magnitude is more or less right. As well, the dating of the events seems to be in order. That Naples did not have any Jews left within its walls we learn from a private letter of the writer and translator Kalonymos ben Kalonymos of Arles.22 He was probably part of the cohort that accompanied King Robert of Naples after the monarch’s four-year stay in Avignon between 1319 and 1324. Kalonymos found himself the single Jew in the city, depressed by the Christian monumenta around him and by the impossibility to live as a Jew in a city that had once been a metropolis of Jewish life. His wish to leave was granted by Robert, so that we next find him in Rome. The mention of Kalonymos’s name brings me to the last part of my presentation, dealing with the employment of Jewish intellectuals in the Angevin courts. The regions of Provence and Italy, as well as Anjou, had old and continuous traditions of rabbinic learning. Southern Italy in the 10th century was the stage for the activity of none other than Sabbetai Donnollo, an astronomer and medical doctor. But in the 13th and 14th

20 Ferorelli, Gli ebrei, pp. 54–55. 21 I rely on the study of F. Lotter “Die Judenverfolgung des König Rintfleisch in Franken um 1298. Die entgültige Wende in den christlich jüdischen Beziehungen im deutschen Reich des Mittelalters,” Zeitschrift für historische Forschung, 4 (1988), pp. 385–422. 22 I. Sonne and I. Zolli (eds.), “Iggereth ha-Mussar (Epistola Ammonizione di Calonimo ben Calonimo),” Kovetz Al Yad 1 (Jerusalem 1936).

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centuries, a new interest in Greco-Arabic sciences came into vogue in southern Europe. Jews in Sicily and Spain were in a privileged position as many of them spoke Arabic. The Christian conquerors of these regions took advantage of the fact, and employed Jews as translators from the Arabic. The Angevins, to be sure, were not the only ones to do it, but they were certainly not shy in turning to the Jews for help. Let me raise the names of three Angevin Jewish intellectuals, the first being that of Farag of Arigento, in southern Sicily.23 There are no traces of his own writings within Hebrew literature and all that we know of him is that he served as a translator (“interpreter” is a term we find in some documents) from Arabic to Latin in the court of Charles the First, founder of the Angevin dynasty. In a letter written in Rome on 2 June 1278, the monarch urged him to find the medical tract about “sickness of the ears” as soon as possible.24 It seems that Charles was in pain, and he wrote to Farage again four days later, this time from Melfi, expressing disappointment that the Jew had not followed his order. The tone of the letter is severe and the king warns that Farage will fall out of the royal good graces. He wrote: “Send us the book immediately, putting aside all difficulties so that we will not be obliged to write to you again about it.” The crisp, impatient style was nothing out of the ordinary, according to a recent biographer of Charles: seemingly, he used this tone with other of his correspondents.25 That Farage had by then acquired a special status in the court can be surmised from a royal letter to the community of Palermo, dated 23 December 1270, confirming a certain rabbi by the name of Maborach Fadalcassem as religious leader (presbyter), scribe, and kosher slaughterer. This confirmation, according to the monarch, was due to the fact that Maborach passed an examination conducted by magister Ferage, who is described as fidelis noster et interpreter curie nostre.26 While Charles was harassing Farag in June 1278, the “interpreter” was heavily involved in another project—a translation of the medical encyclopedia Al-Hawi from Arabic to Latin.27 It was the most important of 23 Cf. W. Cohn, “Jüdische Übersetzer am Hofe Karls I von Anjou, Königs von Sizilien (1266–1285),” Juden und Staufer in Unteritalien und Sizilien (Aalen 1978), pp. 50–64. 24 Cf. Houben, “Neue Quellen,” pp. 349–350, Docs. 5 and 6. 25 Dunbabin, Charles I of Anjou. pp. 22–23. 26 Published by S. Simonsohn, The Jews in Sicily, I (Leiden-New York 1997), pp. 464–465, Doc. 228. 27 Cf. W. Cohn, “Jüdische Übersetzer” and M. Steinschneider, Die hebräischen Übersetzungen des Mittelalters und die Juden als Dolmetscher (Berlin 1893), pp 723–724 (No. 468).



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several translations he did for the court of Charles. Al Hawi, known in the Latin west by the title Continens, was a monumental work composed by the Persian doctor Al-Razi who died in Baghdad around the year 932 CE. The book reached Sicily via neighbouring Tunisia. Farag translated it in relatively short order. He started his work on 6 February 1278 and brought it to an end on 12 February of the next year. He was paid not only for his rendering, but also for supervising the proofreading and correcting the work of the copyists. Unlike other works of the time, his book and its corrections survived and are kept today in the French National Library of Paris (Ms. Lat. 6912). The illuminated manuscript contains several portraits of Farag, who thus becomes the earliest Jewish man of letters whose face is known to us today. Independent of Farag, but in exactly the same years, another Jewish intellectual, Moses of Salerno, worked for the Angevin court. He was known in Hebrew letters as an author of a dictionary of philosophical terms, and also as a religious polemicist and a follower and interpreter of Maimonides.28 The monarch became aware of his talents and engaged him as a translator as well. Only one of his works survives—a treatise about the healing of sick horses, which has been wrongly attributed to Hippocrates. Members of the knightly society appreciated the work more than we would today. For this reason, it did not remain in its Latin version but was rendered into Italian at some point. To my knowledge, nothing is known about intellectuals in the court of Charles the Second. He seems to have been, as we saw above, quite hostile to the Jews. The situation improved during the long reign of his heir, the philosopher King Robert, who himself had intellectual and spiritual pretensions and surrounded himself with artists and men of letters. During his rather lengthy stay in Avignon, between 1319 and 1324, he must have heard about the assiduous translator Kalonymos ben Kalonymos of Arles and proposed that he translate works from Arabic to Latin. Although Kalonymos had not previously done such work, he consented. After his unhappy stay in Naples he moved, probably also in 1324, to Rome, which by then had become a thriving spiritual and intellectual Jewish centre. In Rome, he befriended the well-known Emmanuel and his young relative, Judah Romano. Judah, whose name disappeared from the annals of Jewish letters within a century, was an original thinker and most importantly to Kalonymos perhaps, a Latinist. He rendered into Hebrew parts of 28 Cf. Steinschneider, supra, p. 985 (No. 588), who takes him to be from Palermo.

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the works of Christian theologians like Thomas Aquinas and his teacher Albert the Great.29 King Robert, who was then governor (“senator”) of Rome, became aware of his talents and made him part of the court, where he joined Kalonymos. The two may actually have collaborated on the translation of Averroes’ treatise refuting al-Ghazali’s “Incoherence of Philosophy.” The translation, known as “Destructio destructionis,” took much time to complete. Kalonymos’s family in Arles became impatient with his long stay abroad. Finally, on 18 April 1328,30 Kalonymos returned to Arles and continued to work for the Angevin court. In 1329, the treasurer of Provence is ordered to pay master “Calonus” the sum of six gold ounces for his work as a translator. This is the last we hear of him.31 Immanuel of Rome, writing to the Kalonymos family while the translator was “working for the king” in the city, included in his letter some intriguing statements, according to which Kalonymos was instrumental in obtaining royal privileges for the Jews.32 We recall that King Robert mentioned with much pride the privileges he granted the Jews. Is there any connection between the two pieces of information? Looking for an answer, I do not find a better adverb in my vocabulary than “possibly.” But I have used these and similar terms too often in my presentation so I must stop here, lest you become even more confused.

29 See Steinschneider’s index regarding the translation. Much attention to his works, specifically the original, has been given in recent years by the late Giuseppe Sermoneta and his protégée Katherine Rigo. 30 E. Renan [and A. Neubauer], Les écrivains juifs français du XIV siècle (Paris 1893), pp. 417–460, in particular pp. 440–441. The translation is to be found in Ms. Vaticanum Lat. 2434. 31 Cf. Caggese, Roberto d’Angio, p. 371 note 3. 32 Cf. D. Jarden (ed.), The Cantos of Immanuel of Rome (Jerusalem 1957), p. 427 [Hebrew].

International Trade and Italian Jews at the Turn of the Middle Ages Shlomo Simonsohn It is generally assumed by those who treat Jewish commercial activities and international trade in the Middle Ages and the years immediately following, that these activities declined with the passage of time in absolute and relative terms. While there is more than a grain of truth in this assumption, there are a few caveats that must be borne in mind, which make the watershed between the Middle Ages and the following centuries less distinct. No doubt the equation mercator-Judaeus of Carolingian times was no longer valid as the Middle Ages drew to a close. Also, the Jewish international traders of the Geniza period had long since abandoned the sea lanes and caravan routes from the Pillars of Hercules to India and the countries in between. The Italian seafaring republics had taken over from the Arabs and the Jews; following the Great Discoveries (and including the sea route around the Cape of Good Hope), the Italians in turn had been superseded by the nations along the shores of the Atlantic, though not as abruptly and as totally as some would have it. Much had changed by the end of the Middle Ages and the beginning of the modern era. The Mediterranean ceased being the hub of international European trade, and most Western European countries had rid themselves of the infidel Jew. Italy became one of the few exceptions. Even after the expulsions from Sicily and the Kingdom of Naples, there lived a sizeable Jewish community in Central and Northern Italy, though initially much smaller than the communities in the south of the country. The ranks of these communities were swelled by Spanish-Portuguese exiles who returned to Europe directly or indirectly from the Iberian Peninsula, or in Turkish guise and (more importantly) equipped with Ottoman passports (at least initially) to protect them from the Inquisition (though not always successfully so, as in the case of Ancona). They came to Italy at the invitation of the Holy See, the Medici, the Serenissima, and others, to inject new vigour into the veins of declining international trade. They did not bring back the past, but they must not be written off as a negligible quantity.

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The present paper is an attempt to point to some of the problems of further research and to delineate some of the changes that took place in the three or so centuries under review, so far as Jewish international trade in Italy is concerned. I also hope that it will encourage young scholars to fill the gap and to present us with a history of Jewish participation in Italian international trade during the centuries of upheaval and change. I shall try to outline the background for some serious research and perhaps a comprehensive monograph, long overdue.1 The use of the term “international trade” during the European Middle Ages and the years following them describes a situation that waned and eventually disappeared only in the course of later generations. In the Middle Ages and early modern times, town limits were also trade barriers protected by custom duties, both on exports and imports. Those were imposed in addition to the duties exacted by rulers in their territory, or parts of it, a large variety of other imposts such as all sorts of gabelle, and so forth. Furthermore, the political fragmentation of Italy (and countries like it, such as Germany) further contributed to the difficulties and tax burden imposed on businessmen trading across borders, near and far. To these must be added tolls and other imposts collected en route by all and sundry, as well as the hazards of running the gauntlet of bandits on land and of pirates on the seas. I cite here only one example that describes trade conditions in the 14th century in Sardinia, which was then in the process of being wrested by the Aragonese from the Genoese. In 1329, Alphonso IV of Aragon instructed Guglielmo de Abbazia, bailiff, customs officer, and harbour master of Cagliari, to collect export and import duties as follows:2 1 The present state of research has not changed much in the past half century since Salo Baron wrote: “Regrettably, no comprehensive study of the Jewish participation in medieval fairs, both international and local, has as yet been written, although much information can be gleaned from scattered references in rabbinic letters and records pertaining to individual fairs”; and “The rôle of Spanish Jewry in international trade has not yet been sufficiently investigated.” See his Social and Religious History of the Jews, XII (New YorkLondon-Philadelphia 1967), pp. 290f, notes 36, 40. These observations are valid also for Italy. On the other hand, much information on the Jewish economy and international trade in Italy and the rest of the Mediterranean has been forthcoming during those years, most (albeit not all) contained in the 30-odd volumes of my Documentary History of the Jews in Italy (Jerusalem-Tel Aviv-Leiden-Köln-New York-Boston 1982–in progress). I shall not deal here with the impact the conflict between the Franciscans and the Jews of Jerusalem in the 15th century had on Jewish trade with the Orient. See my “Un divieto di trasportare ebrei in Palestina,” Atti del Congresso Italia Judaica II (Rome, 1986), pp. 39f. 2 Arch. di Stato Cagliari, Antico Arch. Regio, vol. B5, c. 18r., published by C. Tasca, Gli ebrei in Sardegna nel XIV secolo, società, cultura, istituzioni (Cagliari 1992), Doc. XIV,



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Table 1. The Collection of Import and Export Duties as Instructed by Alphonso IV of Aragon in 1329. Jews from Barbary and Saracens Neapolitans Pisans Italians Tuscans Genoese Venetians Anconitans Sicilians Levantines of Constantinople, Cyprus and Armenia French Aragonese-Catalans (non-exempt) Sardinians, subjects of Arborea, Doria and Malaspina

Import

Export

8% 4% 3.33% 3.33% 3.33% 3.33% 3.33% 3.33% 3.33% 3% 2% 2% 1.66%

4% 3% 1.66% 1.66% 1.66% 1.66% 1.66% 1.66% 1.66% 1% 1% 1% 1.66%

The North African Jews stand out by their position at the head of the table, which may be indicative of their relative importance as traders at this Sardinian port, and by the high rate of duty demanded of them (in fact, the highest, along with Moslems). If that discrimination had anything to do with their faith, or was due to the often-strained relations between Aragon and North Africa, I am unable to say. Some of the other nationalities may have contained a Jewish element, but apparently not numerous enough to warrant a separate listing. That the royal instructions were not mere theory we learn from the customs lists of exports and imports by Jews in Cagliari and Alghero in the 14th and 15th centuries. The goods were traded by Jews with Sardinia, mainland Italy and Sicily, Spain, and Southern France, as well as Tunisia, and included a large variety of articles, such as food, cloth and clothing, various raw materials, and so forth. Some of the merchants accompanied their goods on board ship, while others conducted their affairs from their hometowns.3 pp. 265f., and the references to earlier editions cited there. For the trade of Sicilian Jews with Sardinia and that of Sardinian Jews with Sicily, see my “I rapporti fra la Sardegna e la Sicilia nel contesto del mondo mediterraneo,” Atti del convegno internazionale: Gli ebrei in Sardegna nel contesto Mediterraneo Cagliari, 17–20 nov. 2008, Materia giudaica XIV/1–2 (2009), pp. 125–131. 3 Tasca, op. cit., tavole 23–26; id., “Ebrei e società,” Sardegna nel XV secolo, Fonti archivistiche e nuovi spunti di ricerca (Florence 2008). See also id., Aspetti economici e sociali delle comunità ebraiche sarde nel quattrocento. Nuovi contributi, Materia Giudaica XI/1–2 (2006), pp. 87–96.

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Sicily was another Italian island on which Jews conducted international trade on a large scale during the period under review, until 1492. Two memoranda written at the time of the expulsion shed light on the dimensions of the Jewish engagement in Sicilian international trade. The first was presented to King Ferdinand II on the 20th of June of that year by some of the senior bankers and officials of Sicily, in which they described the damage to the economy of the island resulting from the expulsion of the Jews and the cessation of their economic activities. The second was one of the most informative reports written in conjunction with the expulsion of the Jews. The author was Pietro de Bologna, secreto of Palermo, chief administrative officer of the Crown in that town. It was written at the behest of the viceroy on the 27th of August. The secreto calculated the annual duties collected in Palermo on imports and exports by the Jews to be 891.0.0 ounces. A hefty sum by contemporary values.4 Since the report was based on official records, it allows us to infer that the total amount of duties paid annually by the Jews of Sicily probably came to some 5,000 ounces. This, in turn, was based on the fact that Palermitan Jews accounted for some 15–20 percent of all Sicilian Jews, who totalled some 25,000 adults. Significantly, Sicilian Jews represented over 50 percent of all Italian Jews at this point in time. So the volume of Jewish trade in Sicily shortly before the expulsion was substantial. Since duties thus collected amounted to some two percent ad valorem on the average, the total was probably worth not less than a quarter of a million ounces. However, it is impossible to state with any degree of accuracy how many of these goods were sent abroad, that is, out of Sicily proper, and how many were traded inside the country, across local borders. Furthermore, 4 Arch, di Stato Palermo, R. Protonotaro, reg. 146, cc. 44v–49r.; Secrezia, reg. 49, cc. 76r–81r. See my History of the Jews in Sicily VIII (A Documentary History of the Jews in Italy XXII) (Leiden-Boston 2006), Docs. 5497, 5628; ibid., XVIII (Leiden-Boston 2010), ch. 12; id., Between Scylla and Charybdis: The Jews in Sicily (Leiden-Boston 2011), ch. 18; E. Ashtor, “Le fin du Judaïsme sicilien,” REJ 142 (1983), p. 324; B. and G. Lagumina, Codice diplomatico dei Giudei di Sicilia, 3 vols. (Palermo 1884–1909), III, pp. 45f., 154f.; A. Milano, “The Number of the Jews in Sicily at the Time of Their Expulsion in 1492,” Jewish Social Studies 15 (1953), pp. 25f.; id., “Vicende economiche degli ebrei nell’Italia meridionale ed insulare durante il medioevo,” RMI 20 (1954), pp. 380f.; G. Modica Scala, Le comunità ebraiche nella contea di Modica (Modica 1978), pp. 46f. 361; A. Precopi Lombardo, “Gli ebrei di Sicilia nella bufera dell’espulsione,” Libera Università Trapani 5 (1986), pp. 176; id., “Le comunità ebraiche del Trapanese nei documenti editi e inediti del XV secolo,” Gli ebrei in Sicilia sino all’espulsione del 1492, Atti del V convegno internazionale Italia Judaica, Palermo 1992 (Rome 1995), pp. 465f.; F. Renda, La fine del giudaismo siciliano (Palermo 1993), pp. 5f., 54, 115; R. Starrabba, “Di un documento riguardante la giudecca di Palermo,” ASS 1 (1873), pp. 89f.; C. Trasselli, “Sull’espulsione degli ebrei della Sicilia,” Annali della Facoltà di Economia e Commercio di Palermo 8 (1954), pp. 5f.



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the report contains much additional information on the trade of the Jews in Palermo and in some 20 Jewish communities throughout Sicily.5 Now for some details. The international trade of an island like Sicily was based on ships and shipping. The route between Messina and Reggio Calabria was a very short voyage, but the trade with mainland Italy, Spain, Sardinia, the Balearic Islands, North Africa, the Middle East, and the rest of the Mediterranean world involved long sea voyages, their hazards and rewards. Even internal trade in Sicily was often carried on by sea along the coast, and, of course, to Malta, Gozo, Pantelleria, and Lipari. After the Aragonese conquest, the trade of Sicily with Catalonia, especially Barcelona, increased considerably. There was a continuous export-import movement of goods between the two countries. The merchandise traded included grain, sugar, spices, coral, cloth, etc. Barcelona was also the destination for much of the Sicilian grain procured by the Crown to provision Catalonia. As they had done for ages, Jews engaged in shipping travelled by sea and shipped their merchandise to all parts of the Mediterranean. Part of the Jewish share in international trade took the form of investment: a (maritime) loan, partnership, or other form of participation. A typical example was the loan that Merdoc Marmaymono of Palermo made to Benjamin, son of Saul de Messana of Majorca, in the sum of 27 ounces for the acquisition of goods in Tunisia (1323). From there, the goods were to be shipped to Catalonia for sale. Then, the proceeds were to be invested in merchandise to be shipped to Sicily. Next there came an “interest-free” loan made by Chayono Benmeymun of Palermo to Petro Perera of Barcelona, master of the S. Maria at anchor in Palermo, in the sum of 11.16.0 ounces (1329). On the same day, Chayono entrusted Iacob Benchayun of Majorca with wool cloth, and saffron valued at 14 ounces, by way of a commenda partnership. Iacob was to ship the goods from Palermo to Syracuse, and from there to Cyprus. He was to sell them, purchase merchandise with 5 The calculations are based on the figures reported in my Scylla and Charybdis, cit., passim. As I pointed out there, comparisons with modern figures and values are often futile. Figures quoted have to be taken as the portrayal of a momentary situation, to be used only with extreme caution. However, the Jewish population figures are more or less accurate. The literature on the Sicilian economy at the close of the Middle Ages is vast. The following is a short selection: H. Bresc, Un monde Méditerranéen. Économie et Société en Sicilie 1300–1450, 2 vols. (Rome 1986); id., “L’Agriculture sicilienne entre autoconsommation et exportation,” Le Italie del Tardo Medioevo 1990, pp. 449f.; M. Del Treppo, I mercanti catalani e l’espansione della corona d’Aragona nel mediterraneo (Naples 1972); S.R. Epstein, An Island for Itself. Economic Development and Social Change in Late Medieval Sicily (Cambridge 1992); C. Trasselli, “Sull’economia siciliana nei secoli XIV e XV,” Annali della Facoltà Economia e Commercio di Palermo, 2 (1948), pp. 70f.; id., Da Ferdinando il Cattolico a Carlo V, L’esperienza siciliana 1475–1525 (Palermo 1982).

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the proceeds, and ship it to Sicily. Following that, he was to return to Chayono his investment as well as half the profits. If Iacob was unable to ship the goods to Cyprus, he was to sell them in Syracuse. Brachono Mizoc, a druggist trading in more than just drugs and very active in Palermo at this time, invested four ounces in the trip of Andrea Biondo, a Palermitan sailor, to Calabria and was promised restitution of the capital and a share in the profits on Andrea’s return. The notaries of Palermo recorded over 50 business deals transacted by Brachono. The deal with Andrea was followed by his involvement in business trips of ships to Naples and Sardinia. Brachono found this profitable and decided to trade on his own. In 1362, he leased the S. Maria, the boat of two Catalans in Palermo, for a trip to Cagliari and Oristano. The Catalans were to transport for him to Sardinia white and red wine, copper, cotton, anise, cinnamon, sugar and rosewater (essence). They charged Brachono eight Florentine florins. In the event of the cargo being lost, they were to return the payment. In addition, Brachono made the seamen a commenda loan of 15 florins. This sounded almost like some of the shipments of Jewish traders in the 11th century. Brachono also exported tuna to Terracina.6 The commercial ties of Sicilian Jews with North Africa continued throughout the last two centuries of Jewish presence in Sicily. Thus a Palermitan druggist, Salamon Nachuay, very active in the second half of the 14th century, entered upon a joint business venture to Tunis with the Genoese merchant Gabriele de Ardimento. On his return, the Genoese gave Salamon his share: wool worth 100 florins. The often-strained relations between Aragon and the North African rulers resulted in the imposition of embargoes on the export of most goods to Barbary. But some business continued, interference with the traffic of goods notwithstanding. In addition to Palermo, Syracuse held an important position in international trade. One of the chief shipping lines to North Africa and the Orient started from there, or passed through its port. It also had close links

6 On the trade between Sicily and Malta and Gozo, chiefly with Syracuse, see V. Mulè, “Ebrei tra Siracusa e Malta,” ASSi S.III, XVI (2002), pp. 101f.; id., Mercanti, banchieri e prestatori ebrei nella Sicilia del XV secolo. Profilo, attività, relazioni familiari e sociali, doctoral dissertation, Università di Pisa [2007/8]; G. Wettinger, The Jews of Malta in the Late Middle Ages (Malta 1985). On trade with Barcelona, see Del Treppo, cit., pp. 149f., 352f. For Sardinia, see Tasca’s volumes, cit., supra, note 3, and my paper, there. See also E. Ashtor, Jews in the Mediterranean Trade in the Fifteenth Century, Festschrift Kellenbenz (Nuremberg 1978), pp. 441f.; id., “Jews in the Mediterranean Trade in the Later Middle Ages,” HUCA 55 (1984), pp. 159f. One of the standard forms of this trade was “maritime partnership” (ad usum riparie maritime); see my Jews in Sicily, cit., Doc. 678, and Scylla and Charybdis, cit., ch. 18.



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to Malta and Gozo. On the other hand, Messina looked mostly north, to Calabria, other parts of mainland Italy and the surrounding islands, and the Orient. A contract with far-flung ramifications is recorded from there in 1417: Samuele Kudi of Cagliari and Samuele Isac de Marsiglia, Jewish merchants, set up a maritime trade partnership with Giorgio de Costancio of Sibeniko, Pietro de Albone, a merchant of Barcelona, and Giovanni Serra.7 Another important Sicilian emporium for foreign trade was Trapani, especially due to its links with Tunisia. Brisk trade, import and export, between Jews in Trapani and Sardinia took place throughout the 14th and 15th centuries. The goods traded included wine (also kosher), food and spices, tunny, sugar, livestock, hides, and cloth, to mention only a few. Not only had the Jews of Trapani engaged in that trade, but also those of Palermo, and (to a lesser degree) those of Licata, Messina, and Marsala. Even in the midst of hostilities, temporary truces, and negotiations, trade did not stop altogether. In 1422, two Jews leased from Lanzone Fardella, the vice-admiral of Trapani, his relatively large boat, S. Caterina and S. Giuliano, manned by 25 sailors, to transport 650 salme of barley and wheat (a salma of grain measured 343 litres) from Mazara to Sfax, Jerba, or Tripoli. The Jews intended to trade the grain for oil, cumin, pepper, wax, budas and simbiles, gold, silver, and pearls, whichever was available. Danger loomed everywhere, whether from the warring navies or local privateers and freebooters, even inside Sicilian harbours. But notwithstanding the hostilities, transactions with North Africa abounded. Cheese appears to have been a preferred export item to mainland Italy and so were corals. In 1446, Muxa Chilfa of Trapani shipped caciocavallo to Gaeta. Elia de Vita of Mazara undertook to ship 70 kantars of cheese to the Kingdom of Naples [a kantar = nearly 80 kilogrammes = 100 rotoli]. In 1458, Merdocho de Salvato of Trapani sold tunny to Sardinia and in 1469, Sadono Sala, in partnership with Andrea de Maglocto, shipped four casks of oil and 200 cowhides to Naples.8 7 My Jews in Sicily, cit., Doc. 1146, p. 11659; Ashtor, Fifteenth Century, cit., p. 444; V. Mulè, “Nuovi documenti sulla comunità ebraica di Messina nel XV secolo,” Percorsi di storia ebraica, Atti del convegno internazionale Cividale del Friuli (Udine 2005), pp. 401, 404; R.M. Rizzo Pavone, “Gli archivi di Stato Siciliani e le fonti per la storia degli ebrei,” in Gli ebrei in Sicilia sino all’espulsione del 1492, Atti del V Convegno internazionale Italia Judaica, Palermo 1992 (Rome 1995), p. 83; Tasca, Ebrei e società in Sardegna nel XV secolo, cit., Doc. 48; C. Trasselli, Note per la storia dei banchi in Sicilia, 2 vols. (Palermo 1959–1968), 1, pp. 177f., who suggested that the purpose of the venture was to buy slaves. 8 On Tunis, see Trasselli, Mediterraneo e Sicilia (Cosenza 1977), p. 149, based on Arch. di Stato Trapani, Not. Giovanni Scannatello, 16.12.1422. And see my Jews in Sicily, Docs. 2623, 2676, 2684, 2849, 2875, 3303, 5215, 5235, pp. 9198, 9206, 9260, 9269f., 9365, 10043f. See also

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This went on unabated until the expulsion from Sicily. Sicilian Jews engaged in trade with Flanders, including the 1470 sale of a kantar of pepper and 40 rotoli of cloves. The goods were loaded aboard a Venetian ship. A Jew of Messina traded 13 rotoli of steel, 15 pounds of variously coloured silk, and other goods. Iacob Faccas, a member of the well-known Messinese family, did the same with 40 canne of silk cord. In 1486, a partnership was set up by some Jews of Syracuse, with a capital of 130.19.15 ounces. They planned to export to North Africa silk, copper oxide (carbonate), cheese, bronze, cloth, five Moorish slaves, and so forth. The following year, a partnership was set up to trade in North Africa, to last as long as the Venetian galleys travelled there. The partners invested spun cotton, mastic, cheese, and sugar plus a bill of exchange drawn on Valencia, as well as some credits in North Africa. In 1491, two Palermitan Jews were given permission to export 18 kantars of refined saltpetre from the port of Palermo. However, they were not to send it to places forbidden by law. Saltpetre was particularly sensitive since it was used to make gunpowder. In the middle of the turmoil created by the edict of expulsion, Rabbi Ysac, a Castilian Jew, in Sicily on the king’s business, was allowed to export to Tunis ten casks of wine, twenty salme of chickpeas, two kantars of vermicelli, four kantars of cumin, and two kantars of caciocavallo.9 At this juncture in their history, Sicilian Jews were hardly ever shipowners or sailors, except in a few instances. Thus in 1416, Sufen Gillebi of Palermo owned a seventh of the barque S. Giuliana, engaged in the transport of tunny from Palermo to Syracuse. In 1418, Musa Sansario, a Jew of Cefalù, sold a third of his boat, the S. Maria, at anchor in the port of Palermo, to Battista Fossanove and another third to Costanzo de la Mandino, for 5.25.0 ounces each. So the vessel was worth 17.15.0 ounces, and hence it cannot have been a very large ship. Battista and Musa appointed

E. Ashtor, “Trapani e il commercio internazionale nel basso medioevo,” La Fardelliana 2 (1983), pp. 5f.; G. Costantino, “Le relazioni degli ebrei trapanesi con il regno Ḥafṣide di Tunisi sotto Alfonso V,” Mediterranea 5/14 (2008), pp. 505f. 9 My Jews in Sicily, cit., Docs. 5394, 5430 5597, pp. 11512, 11516, 11691; see Ashtor, Fifteenth Century, cit., p. 445; Mulè, Comunità ebraica di Siracusa, cit., pp. 80f.; id. “Nuovi documenti sulle comunità ebraiche della Sicilia orientale: Messina, Catania, Siracusa,” MG IX/1–2 (2004), p. 234; id., Messina, cit., p. 401; Rizzo Pavone, Archivi di Stato siciliani, cit., p. 84; A. Scandaliato, “Schiavi di ebrei ed ebrei schiavi nel Quattrocento siciliano,” Atti del convegno internazionale: La schiavitù nel Mediterraneo di età moderna, Nuove Effermeridi XIV, n. 54 (2001), p. 24.



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Costanzo master of the vessel, to run its business on their behalf. He was to sail the boat and engage in trade. In 1444, Nissim de Medico and Matheo de Missina, alias Chaxen, both of Trapani, set up a joint venture. Matheo invested wine, marzipan, honey, and other goods, as well as 21.9.2 ounces in cash. Nissim invested 4.23.4 ounces. The merchandise was to be shipped aboard Nissim’s barque to Tripoli in North Africa, to be sold. The profit, after the deduction of the investments, was to be divided in equal shares. In 1462, Lucio Sammi of Trapani bought a quarter of a boat for 13.15.0 ounces, meaning the boat was worth 54 ounces. Daniel de Actono of Trapani sold a third of a boat, the S. Michele, in 1467, and a whole barque in 1474. Another sale of a third of a boat took place in Trapani in 1475, when Manuel de Actono sold a third of a sagistia for 13.10.0 ounces. So the boat was worth 40 ounces. In the same year, Lia Rizu leased a boat manned by four sailors to ship 40½ kantars of cheese to Naples along with other goods. In 1479, Mordachai Cuyno of Trapani bought the remaining two thirds of the barque Rivera, at anchor in Trapani, with fittings and tools. One third already belonged to him. In Termini, too, Jews owned ships. In 1430, Xibite Maltense and Gauyucio de Binna owned the S. Cristofaro together with a Christian. It held 40 salme. In 1431, Gauyucio owned another boat. He had contracted for the transport of gourds from Termini to Palermo. Still in Termini, Girardo Ricio leased his boat to Musuto Minzi, a Jew, and promised him in 1447 to ship to Reggio Calabria 200 barrels of tunny for 10 grana a barrel, and some wool and leather for one tarì a salma. If the goods were shipped to Salerno, Musuto was willing to pay 12 grana for a barrel of tunny and five tarì for a salma of wool and leather. In Syracuse, as busy a port as Trapani, Salamone and Merdoch de Minichi leased a boat in 1491 for a trip to Tripoli for 12 ounces. So did Iacob Melmichi and Iosep Machazeni. They paid seven ounces for the hire of a boat to ship oil and salt to Tripoli. The following year, for 10.5.7 ounces, Simone and Merdoc Mermichi, Jews of Messina, hired a boat at anchor there for a trip to Barce (Tunis). Finally, Iacob Siccar, a Jewish smith of Messina, owned a ship, at least from 1488 until the expulsion.10

10 My Jews in Sicily, cit., pp. 5888, 6263f., 9215, 9588, 9597, 9867, 9997, 10121, 10140, 10569, 10570, 10629f., 11490, 11491, 11492, 11671. For small boats owned or hired by Jews engaged in the tuna business, see pp. 7637, 7746, 7760, 8865. And see my Between Scylla and Charybdis, cit., ch. 18.

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Generally speaking, the engagement of the Jews of Southern Italy in international trade (and in other economic activities) resembled that of the Jews in Sicily, Sardinia, and (of course) Catalonia, the Balearic Islands, and so forth. A century ago, Ferorelli described the situation in Southern Italy: “Numerous documents testify to the fact that they (the Jews) own in nearly every maritime town stocks of goods and merchandise, and travel continuously all over the kingdom, and attend fairs . . . they are in continuous contact with their fellow Jews and the businessmen in the rest of Italy . . . in particular with Venetians, Milanese and Florentines.” In Southern Italy, too, Jews went into partnership with each other and with non-Jews. Travelling with their merchandise abroad, they were exposed to the same dangers as their fellow businessmen in Sicily and elsewhere. Thus, around 1477, Simone of Reggio, travelling by boat from Calabria to Naples, was waylaid by a Genoese corsair off Palinuro (near Salerno), taken prisoner, and stripped of his merchandise, consisting mainly of cloth and clothing, as well as all his cash. He was to be held for ransom, but managed to escape. He then proceeded to sue the corsair. Another Reggian Jew, Abram Tudisco, attended the fair at Salerno in 1475. There he exchanged some silk for cloth. The invention of printing added Hebrew incunabula to the list of merchandise traded between the Jews of the south and their co-religionists further north. Thus in 1485, Chayyim, son of Angelo of Trevi in Montalto (Uffugo), bartered with Iosef, son of Angelo (perhaps his brother) in Rome, 440 small livestock (i.e., sheep and/or goats) to be delivered to Castrovillari for 100 copies of the Hebrew Bible. Other examples are plentiful and some will be mentioned by our colleague Colafemmina, whose lecture will follow mine.11 This brings us to the northern half of Italy and its Jews. Until the end of the Middle Ages, the Jewish population of that region of Italy was sparse and its involvement in international trade insignificant compared to that 11 N. Ferorelli, Gli ebrei nell’Italia meridionale dall’età romana al secolo XVIII (Turin 1915; repr. Bologna 1966, Naples 1990), pp. 128f., based mainly on the records in the archives of Naples, some of which have been destroyed in the meantime. C. Colafemmina, “Gli ebrei nel salernitano” (sec. IV–XVI), Documenti e realtà nel mezzogiorno italiano in età medievale e moderna (Amalfi 1995), p. 182; id. Per la storia degli ebrei in Calabria, saggi e documenti (Soveria Mannelli 1996), pp. 29f., based on Arch. di Stato Napoli, Sommario, Partium 11, c. 208r–v and pp. 99f., and Sommario, Partium 12, cc. 1v–3r, and the references cited there. And see below on the ties of Jews in southern Italy with northern merchant bankers, Jewish and non-Jewish. For bartering, see Colafemmina, Calabria, cit., p. 27, based on Arch. di Stato, Roma, Notai Capitolini 1667, cc. 529v–530r. The “Hebrew Bible” was probably the Pentateuch, Bologna 1482.



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of the Jews in the South and the islands. The economic pillar of most Jewish settlements in the northern part of Italy during the later Middle Ages was moneylending and remained so until the 16th century. Admittedly, the condotte, i.e., the contracts between the Jewish settlers and their new hosts, often contained a paragraph allowing the bankers freedom of trade, but that appears to have had only a limited impact on their economic activities. These were, and remained, the trade in money and its ramifications, particularly the trade in unredeemed pawns, the so-called strazzaria and the like. Eventually, however, some of the great Jewish bankers, such as the da Pisa, became more than mere pawnbrokers and can best be described as merchant bankers. It is difficult to trace the exact demarcation between banking, merchant banking, commercial investments, and trade. Thus as early as 1468, the da San Miniato and da Pisa invested in Jewish banks in Naples and Cosenza and were involved in trade in southern Italy. Not only Jewish bankers in Tuscany maintained business relations with Jews in the South, but also non-Jewish bankers, such as the Strozzi of Florence. The trade appears to have been mainly in cloth and clothing, one of the mainstays of the Jewish economy in southern Italy.12 It is against this background that one of the members of the family, Jechiel Nissim da Pisa (1507–74), wrote his ‫( מאמר חיי עולם‬Chayye ‘Olam) on banking and finance. While it deals mainly with interest and usury, that is Jewish moneylending, it also contains a chapter on bills of exchange and maritime insurance. Da Pisa states incorrectly that Jews in his day were not using this method of payment. Be that as it may, da Pisa enumerates two types of bills: one, cambio, which was essentially a money transfer (and not always for commercial purposes), and the other, cambio reale, which was a loan to be paid at the clearing house of a fair or the like. He ruled that the first was not to be considered usurious (as long as no interest was involved) and hence was permitted under Jewish law, whereas the second was forbidden. That was also the view of the Catholic

12 M. Luzzati, La casa dell’ebreo, saggi sugli ebrei a Pisa e in Toscana nel medioevo e nel rinascimento (Pisa 1985), pp. 117, 261f., esp. note 133, listing some of these investments. And see there the extensive literature on da Pisa and other Jewish bankers of their circle. Colafemmina, Calabria, cit., p. 26; F. Patroni Griffi, “Scritture contabili tratte dal ‘giornale’ Strozziano del 1476,” Sefer Yuḥasin III (1987), pp. 69f.; IV, pp. 137f. The condotte and other charters are legion, and the reader is referred to the listings in the volumes of bibliographies: Biblioteca Italo-Ebraica. Luzzati, cit., pp. 265f., dwells extensively on the transition of the Jews in central and northern Italy from banking to trade (Dal prestito al commercio: gli ebrei dello stato fiorentino nel secolo XVI).

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Church. He had no scruples in regard to the premium paid to maritime insurers.13 It was during da Pisa’s lifetime that the economic scene of Italian Jewry changed. A new element was injected into it, leading to the development of a commercial activity that had existed before in central and northern Italy, but on a limited scale by a few merchants, such as the da Pisa. It now came to consist mostly of Iberian Jews, some of them exiles, who had come directly to Italy; New Christians who had reverted to Judaism en route to Italy or on Italian soil; and finally, Jews who had found refuge in the Ottoman Empire and had returned to Italy as Levantines and as Turkish citizens and beneficiaries of special privileges. However, some Levantines were not of Iberian origin, but rather were natives of Eastern countries and hence also called Orientals. Spanish-Portuguese Jews, Levantines, and Orientals settled mainly in Ancona, Livorno, and Venice, but there were also sizable nuclei in Ferrara, Verona, Rome, and scattered settlements elsewhere. As we pointed out, by then, that is the 16th century, the Jewish presence in Italy had shifted from the south of the country and the islands to the northern half of the Apennine peninsula.14 13 Jechiel Nissim da Pisa, Banking and Finance among Jews in Renaissance Italy, G.S. Rosenthal (ed.) (New York 1962), and my review in Kirjath Sepher XXXIX (1964), pp. 55f. Da Pisa dealt with bills of exchange and maritime insurance in Chapter 15 of his treatise (pp. 64f.). The Jews of Sicily used bills of exchange long before the days of da Pisa, both in transactions with non-Jews and among themselves. However, they appear to have been simple cambi (of the kind allowed by da Pisa), and not the financial transactions of the so-called cambio reale type. See my Jews in Sicily, cit., passim; and Between Scylla and Charybdis, cit., passim. And see B. Arbel, “Jews, the Rise of Capitalism and Cambio: Commercial Credit and Maritime Insurance in the Early Modern Mediterranean World,” Zion 69/2 (2004), pp. 157f. [Hebrew]; R.S. Lopez and I.W. Raymond (eds.), Medieval Trade in the Mediterranean World: Illustrative Documents (New York 1955), passim. The Sicilian data include the permission granted the Jews on their way out of the country, following the edict of expulsion, to transfer money abroad using bills of exchange. See my Jews in Sicily, cit., Doc. 5760 (. . . possono fari cambiu). Half a century after da Pisa, Leone da Modena, the Venetian rabbi, also allowed the cambio reale. See my edition of his Responsa Ziqne Yehuda (Jerusalem 1956), No. 70 [Hebrew]. The responsum was sent to Hamburg! Da Pisa does not mention the commenda, which was a partnership, at least technically, but often was really a loan, maritime or other. It was tolerated by the Church and practised also by Jews. Instead, he dwells at length on the Jewish (heter) ‘isqa. On the Christian commenda and similar, though not identical, Jewish and Moslem methods of circumventing the biblical prohibition on exacting interest/usury in business transactions, see A.L. Udovitch, “At the Origin of the Western Commenda: Islam, Israel, Byzantium,” Speculum 37 (1962), pp. 198f. It is not our business here to discuss the differences between various types of bills of exchange, letters of credit, accommodation bills, and other forms of payments and money transfers. 14 See R. Segre, “Sephardic Settlements in Sixteenth-Century Italy: A Historical and Geographical Survey,” Mediterranean Historical Review 6/2 (1991), pp. 112f. (repr. Jews, Christians



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Paul III was the pope who initiated the policy of inviting Levantine-Oriental-Portuguese Jews to settle in Ancona with the view of developing its economy, chiefly foreign trade. Paul III and his successor, Julius III, were fully aware that some of these Jews had been New Christians and said so in so many words: . . . universae et singulae utriusque sexus personae Portugalliae et Algarbiorum regnorum . . . etiam si de genere Hebreorum, novi Christianae nuncupati. . . . So the persecution of these merchants by Paul IV and his Inquisition on account of their alleged apostasy from Catholicism, culminating in the burning at an auto-da-fé of some 25 of them, was a flagrant breach of the undertakings of his predecessors. The papal administration declared Ancona a free port and the invitation to come and settle there was extended to the Levantine-Portuguese in successive charters from 1535 onwards. Other Jewish refugees were also included in the charters and were invited to settle elsewhere in the papal March of Ancona. Among those who came to live in Ancona were the partners Samuel and Isaac Abravanel, the son of Leone Ebreo. By 1553, some 150 “Portuguese” families lived in Ancona. Some of them were engaged in international trade, chiefly with the East, while others were moneylenders or pursued other trades.15 and Muslims in the Mediterranean World ]A. Meyuhas, ed.], London 1992; New York 2002). The Inquisition pursued New Christians (Marranos) and tried to prosecute them, as they did in fact in the clamorous case of Ancona in 1555. Pressure brought to bear on the Venetian authorities met with only limited success. See D. Kaufmann, “Die Vertreibung der Marranen aus Venedig im Jahre 1550,” JQR OS XIII (1900), pp. 527f. In Lombardy as well, the authorities tried to interfere with Marranos. See my Jews in The Duchy of Milan, 4 vols. (Jerusalem 1982–6), p. XXXVI, and the documents cited there. The Spanish authorities in Milan appointed a special commissioner. He confiscated goods suspected of belonging to New Christians, including some belonging to Beatrice de Luna (Doña Gracia Nasi). That did not prevent Popes Paul III and Julius III from extending favours to her and her family, though in the end the family thought it wiser to leave for the Ottoman Empire. See my The Apostolic See and the Jews, 8 vols. (Toronto 1988–91), History, pp. 447f.; C. Roth, The House of Nasi. Doña Gracia (Philadelphia 1947); id., The House of Nasi. The Duke of Naxos (Philadelphia 1948). 15 See my “Marranos in Ancona under Papal Protection,” Michael IX (1985), pp. 234f.; The Apostolic See and the Jews, cit., History, pp. 448f., and the sources and literature cited there. See also W. Angelini, “Tra cinquecento e tardo settecento: preparazione e maturità dell’attività mercantile degli ebrei ad Ancona,” in A. Toaff and S. Schwarzfuchs (eds.), The Mediterranean and the Jews, Banking, Finance and International Trade XVI–XVIII Centuries (Ramat Gan 1989), pp. 11f.; V. Bonazzoli, “Ebrei italiani, portoghesi, levantini sulla piazza commerciale di Ancona intorno alla metà del cinquecento,” in G. Cozzi (ed.), Gli ebrei e Venezia (secoli XIV–XVIII) (Milan 1987), pp. 727f.; D. Kaufmann, “Les marranes de Pesaro et le représailles des juifs levantins contre la ville d’Ancone,” REJ 16 (1888), pp. 61f.; id., “Deux lettres nouvelles de Marannes de Pesaro aux Levantines,” REJ 31 (1895), pp. 231f.; R. Lamdan, “‘The Boycott of Ancona’—Viewing the Other Side of the Coin,” in Z. Ankori (ed.), From Lisbon to Salonica and Constantinople, Annual Conference on Jews in Greece—1086

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This brings us to the second mercantile settlement established in Italian ports by Spanish-Portuguese Jews: Venice. The relations between Venice and the Jews had been tortuous. A continuous and long-lasting Jewish presence was not tolerated by the serenissima until the war with the League of Cambrai (1508–10), although Jews had lived there at intervals in the past. But even after Italian and German Jews had been admitted into the town and confined in ghettoes, the Venetian upper classes and the great merchants of the republic refused to give up their monopoly on foreign trade. The situation was further bedevilled by strained foreign relations, such as those with the Ottoman Empire. But in the end, bowing to economic necessity, the republic allowed Levantine merchants to come and trade in Venice and gave them a ghetto of their own (the ghetto vecchio). From then on, the Levantines were tolerated in the town and their maritime trade was encouraged. These ties were further strengthened by such men as Solomon Ashkenasi and Daniel Rodriga (Rodriguez). Later Venetian charters specifically mention every type of Iberian and Levantine Jew, including New Christians who had reverted to their erstwhile religion. The war with the Turks in the 1570s interrupted these cordial relations, but only briefly. Rodriga made himself a name as the promoter of mercantile enterprises, and Ashkenasi was instrumental in bringing about the peace treaty of 1573 between Turkey and Venice. They took advantage of the competition between Ancona and Venice for the trade generated by the Levantines and former New Christians (Ponentines=westerners). Following the events in Ancona in 1555, they brought about the transfer of commercial activities to Venice.16

(Tel Aviv 1988), pp. 135f.; B. Segre, “Nuovi documenti sui marrani d’Ancona (1555–1559),” Michael IX (1985), pp. 130f.; id., Sephardic Settlements in Sixteenth-Century Italy, cit., pp. 132f.; L. Sonne, From Paul IV to Pius V (Jerusalem, 1954) [Hebrew] esp. pp., 146f.; A. Toaff, “Nuova luce sui marrani di Ancona (1556),” Studi sull’ebraismo italiano in memoria di Cecil Roth (Rome, 1974), pp. 261f. For earlier Anconitan attempts to attract Jewish merchants from the Balkans, see B. Cooperman, “Venetian Policy toward Levantine Jews and Its Broader Italian Context,” Gli ebrei e Venezia (secoli XIV–XVIII), cit., p. 71. 16 B. Arbel, “Venezia, gli ebrei e l’attività di Salamone Ashkenasi nella guerra di Cipro,” Ebrei e Venezia cit., pp. 163f.; id., Trading Nations: Jews and Venetians in the Early-Modern Eastern Mediterranean (Leiden 1995); B. Blumenkranz, “Les juifs dans le commerce maritime de Venise (1592–1609),” REJ 119 (1961), pp. 143f.; V. Bonazzoli, “Gli ebrei sefarditi del Levante e i Ragusi nel Cinquecento dal commercio di cuoi e tessuti al profilarsi di nuovi equilibri mediterranei,” in Atti del convegno internazionale su Ragusa e il mediterraneo, Bari 21–22 ottobre 1988, A. Vittorio (ed.) (Bari 1990), pp. 165f.; D.B. Cooperman, “Venetian Policy Towards Levantine Jews and Its Broader Italian Context,” Gli ebrei e Venezia, cit., pp. 65f.; A. Leoni, “Una teshuvà del Ma’harashdam di Salonicco su una vertenza tra due consoli ebrei e il ruolo economico dei mercanti ebrei nella Venezia del cinquecento,” Zakhor VII/2



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Lastly there was Livorno, the greatest and longest-lasting Italian project for the development of international trade with the help of Levantine, Oriental, and Iberian Jews, irrespective of their religious past, and therefore including former New Christians. Iberian Jews began to appear in Tuscany in the 15th century. In 1548, Cosimo I invited Jews, including former New Christians, to come and settle in his dominions. But it was not until the sixties and seventies of the 16th century that Levantine Jews found their way to Pisa. They were precisely Levantines, Oriental, and former New Christians, and were engaged in international trade that flourished a little later in Livorno. The activities of this group in Pisa were interrupted (though not totally so) for some twenty years by the partial expulsion of the Jews from Tuscany and their closure in the ghettoes of Florence and Siena. With the accession of Ferdinand I, the situation changed again, and it was he who extended the invitation to Jewish merchants to come and settle in Pisa and Livorno. The charter of 1593 in its final wording (based on the draft of 1591) set out the liberal conditions offered the Jewish settlers by the Medicean rulers and has become known as the Livornina.17 The Sephardic-Levantine-former New Christians exploited their ties with their kin in the Ottoman Empire and in the diaspora along the Atlantic littoral to their best advantage and to that of their hosts. They traded in every imaginable commodity and engaged in international finance. Some of them even became ship owners. Their activities stretched across Europe—including their native countries of Spain and Portugal—and

(2004), pp. 143f.; L. Poliakov, “Un tentative di Venezia per attirare gli ebrei di Livorno,” RMI 23 (1957), pp. 291f.; B. Ravid, “A Tale of Three Cities and Their Raison d’Etat: Ancona, Venice, Livorno, and the Competition for Jewish Merchants in the Sixteenth Century,” Mediterranean Historical Review 6/2 (1991), pp. 138f. (repr. Jews, Christians and Muslims in the Mediterranean World after 1492 (London 2002); id., “An Autobiographical Memorandum by Daniel Rodriga, in Inventore of the Scala of Spalato,” The Mediterranean and the Jews, cit., pp. 190f.; id., The Jews of Early Modern Venice (Baltimore 2001), and the references cited there. For an overall view, see F.C. Lane, Venice a Maritime Republic (Baltimore 1973), pp. 300f., who describes the rôle played by the Jews in the Venetian economy as “complex”; G. Luzzatto, Storia Economica di Venezia (Venice 1961). 17 J.P. Filippini, “Le role des négotiants et des banquiers juifs de Livourne dans le grand commerce international e Méditerranée au XVIII siècle,” in The Mediterranean and the Jews, cit., pp. 123f.; L. Frattarelli-Fischer, “Ebrei a Pisa fra Cinquecento e Settecento,” in Gli ebrei di Pisa (secoli IX–XX), Atti del convegno internazionale, Pisa, 3–4 ottobre 1994 (Pisa 1998), pp. 89f.; M. Luzzatti, “Da Pisa a Livorno: continuità e frattura,” in La casa dell’ebreo, cit., pp. 125f.; B. Ravid, A Tale of Three Cities, cit., pp. 155f.; R. Toaff, La nazione ebrea a Livorno e a Pisa (1591–1700) (Florence 1990).

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eventually reached the New World. However, only Livorno survived for any length of time.18 In conclusion: The turn of the Middle Ages witnessed the complete reshuffle of the Jewish settlement in Italy. It moved from the south to the north. During the last two centuries of the Middle Ages, Jewish international trade was centred in the south of the country, mainly in the islands, and continued along traditional lines throughout. With the shifting of the Jewish presence in Italy to the north, Jewish international trade became the monopoly of Levantine/Iberian Jews, chiefly in Ancona, Venice, and Livorno. It was encouraged by the rulers of the day to help support the floundering international trade of their countries. The dimensions of these efforts and their effect have yet to be measured and evaluated.19

18 See, for instance, the inventories of goods (including household articles) listed by the Inquisition in Ancona, some of which belonged to moneylenders and some to merchants: Segre, Nuovi documenti, cit., passim. See also the list of articles in B. Arbel, “Venice and the Jewish Merchants of Istanbul in the Sixteenth Century,” in The Mediterranean and the Jews, cit., pp. 39f. The localities in which Levantine traders were active are legion and extended far beyond the Mediterranean. A typical example is cited in M. Cassandro, Aspetti della storia economica e sociale degli ebrei di Livorno nel seicentro (Milan 1983), pp. 84f. and passim. See, for instance, the family Navarro, engaged in the trade in cereals and other goods with the Levant at the beginning of the 17th century. For Jewish ship owners in Italy, see B. Arbel, “Shipping and Toleration: The Emergence of Jewish Shipowners in Early Modern Times,” The Mediterranean Historical Review 15/1 (2000), pp. 56f. 19 The following are a few more references, especially with regard to Sephardic and Levantine settlements other than the three major ones: C. Beinart, “The Settlement of the Jews in the Duchy of Savoy and the Privilege of 1572,” in Scritti in memoria di Leone Carpi (Jerusalem 1967), Hebrew Sect., pp. 72f.; A. Balletti, Gli ebrei e gli Estensi (Reggio 1930); J.G. Da Silva, “Les juifs portugais entre Lisbonne et Venise. Une autre vision de la Méditerranée et de l’économie (XVIe–XVIIIe siècles),” in The Mediterranean and the Jews, cit., pp. 117f.; P.C. Ioly Zorattini, “Enriquez Nunez Alias Abraham Alias Righetto; A Marrano Caught between the S. Uffizio of Venice and the Inquisition of Lisbon,” in The Mediterranean and the Jews, cit., pp. 291f.; D. Jacoby, Recherches sur la Méditerranée orientale du XIIe au XVe siècle, (London 1979); id., “Venice and Venetian Jews in the Eastern Mediterranean,” in Gli ebrei e Venezia, cit., pp. 29f.; A. Leone, “La nation portughesa corteggiata, privilegiata espulsa e riamessa a Ferrara (1538–1550),” Italia 13–15 (2000), pp. 211f.; A. Milano, Storia degli ebrei italiani nel Levante (Florence 1949); R. Segre, The Jews in Piedmont, 3 vols (Jerusalem 1986–90); S. Simonsohn, “The Pinkasim of the Jewish Community of Verona,” Kirjath Sepher 35 (1960), pp. 127f., 250f. [Hebrew]; A. Toaff, “The Jewish Communities of Catalonia, Aragon and Castile in 16th Century Rome,” in The Mediterranean and the Jews, cit., pp. 271f.

The Conservation of History: The Archives of the Jewish Communities in the Veneto Ariel Viterbo The archive of the Jewish community of Padua was established on the evening of 25 Tevet 5347 (4 January 1587). The minutes of the community council’s meeting read as follows: Moreover it was proposed by the administrators to nominate a clerk to conserve the documents of the holy congregation, the documents that will be useful for one person or for many members of the holy congregation, so that the documents will be available to all, when needed. The clerk will be allowed, in accord with the administrators, to compel everyone, aided by a Jewish court or an Italian one, to hand over these documents. He will also be allowed to order everyone to help him with the collection of the documents. This was approved by [a vote of ] 11 for and 3 against.1

The archive of the community of Mantua had been established ten years earlier and this was recorded in the minutes as follows: [The officials] . . . took care to put in order the minute books, documents and decreti pertaining to the holy congregation. Since they observed that the records of the community were taking a turn from bad to worse and no one cared . . . Moreover, sometimes the documents were needed, yet could not be found, as if they were dead and buried. Therefore . . . they decided to purchase a new chest to place in it all the minute books of the holy congregation, and the letters, decreti, and convenzioni required by and belonging to the holy congregation . . .2

These two quotations clearly illustrate the motivations Jewish communities in Italy had in setting up archives. Institutions and individuals create and accumulate documents as a result of day-to-day activity. As the representative body of the Jews in each city, the Italian Jewish communities 1 I should like to express my gratitude to my colleague Miss Rachel Misrati, who edited the final version of this paper. The quotation is from Minute Book of the Council of the Jewish Community of Padua, 1577–1603, D. Carpi (ed.) (Jerusalem 1973), n. 284, p. 214. The Minute Book is in Hebrew: the translation is mine. 2 Jewish Community Archive of Mantua, Minute Book A, 61b; filza 25, Doc. 15, in S. Simonsohn, History of the Jews in the Duchy of Mantua (Jerusalem 1977), p. VII, his translation.

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created thousands of documents. As can be seen from the minutes of the communities in Padua and Mantua, the archives were created to preserve documents needed both for the internal governance of the community and for the administration of relations with the Italian authorities. These demands also necessitated the installation of an archivist, who would be in charge of safeguarding these documents for future use. Over the course of time, the records lost their administrative and legal value and assumed the equally important role of an historical source. Thus, the archives became the keepers of the history of the communities, long after the last community member passed away. It should be understood that the Jewish communities referred to in this article are those that existed in the cities of central and northern Italy in the early 16th century. The archives of those communities located in Sicily and southern Italy were probably lost during the expulsions of 1492 and 1541. The case of the community of Rome, where the archive contains earlier documents, such as papal bulls dating to 1242, is a special one. It is not clear how many communities existed then, but in the 16th and 17th centuries, there were about fifty Jewish communities, all north of Rome. During the period when the Jewish communities were enclosed in ghettoes, their authority was at its peak, and this situation continued until the Emancipation at the end of the 18th century. With the advent of the Emancipation, the communities no longer fulfilled most of their functions and moreover, their numbers dwindled. By 1914, there were only thirty-six communities and in 1938, that number had fallen to just twenty-three. Today, there are twenty-one communities making up the Unione delle Comunità Ebraiche Italiane (UCEI), the Union of Jewish Italian Communities. Each community runs its own archives, both historical and administrative. Some archives of former communities have been conserved, but frequently they were dismantled or lost.3 It may seem strange to be referring to Jewish community archives at this Conference, which is celebrating the jubilee of the research project centred on locating documents on the history of the Jews in Italian public archives. But I wish to present the other side of the coin, a line of research that complements the broad scope of the project that Professor 3 On the history of the Jewish communities in Italy, see: S. Simonsohn, “La condizione giuridica degli ebrei nell’Italia centrale e settentrionale (secoli XII–XVI),” Storia d’Italia, Annali XI: Gli ebrei in Italia (Turin 1996–7), pp. 95–120; R. Bonfil, Jewish Life in Renaissance Italy (Berkeley 1994). On the communities’ archives, see my article “The Archives of the Jewish Communities in Italy”, Archion, 14–15 (2007), pp. 9–28 [Hebrew].



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Simonsohn has led over the last fifty years, because the documentary evidence in the community archives supplements what is kept in the public archives, mainly in the Archivi di Stato. A clear example can be seen in Simonsohn’s book on the Jews in the Duchy of Mantua, in which he uses sources from both community and Stato archives. In his words, “the documents of two archives throw considerable light on the history of the Jews in Mantua and the Mantovano over a period of some four centuries.”4 Micaela Procaccia of the Italian Ministry of Cultural Heritage (the ministry involved in the conservation of community archives) also draws attention to the interesting nature of documents in these archives “because one can see the Jewish point of view about the same topics that appear in the State documents.”5 This article will focus on the archives of the most important communities of the Veneto region, in northeast Italy, as a case study for the presentation of Jewish community archives. Three communities exist today in this region: Venice, Padua, and Verona. In general, the typology of the documents kept in the community archives is extremely varied, as a result of the manifold activities of the communal bodies over the centuries, and also because of the acquisition of other personal or institutional archives. The types of documents include: 1. Documentation relating to Jewish settlement in the city before the founding of the community: charters, correspondence with the authorities, bulls, and decrees 2. Minute books of the councils 3. Documentation relating to tax regulations and taxation 4. Correspondence between the community and a. its members b. the authorities c. other communities in Italy and abroad 5. Demographic documentation: births, weddings and death registers, ketubot and other certificates 6. Burial maps 7. Documentation on the founding of the ghettos and the partition of internal space, including maps, drawings, and plans 4 Simonsohn, History of the Jews in the Duchy of Mantua, cit., p. VIII. 5 M. Procaccia, “Jewish Archives in Italy: An Agreement for Their Preservation,” Preserving Jewish Archives as Part of the European Cultural Heritage, J.-C. Kuperminc and R. Arditti (eds.) (Paris 2001), p. 139.

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8. Internal statutes of the community, and of societies, synagogues, and schools that operated within the community 9. Minute books and documents of the societies, synagogues, and schools that operated within the community, frequently whole archives 10. Archives of vanished communities 1 1 . Personal archives of rabbis and communal leaders6 Venice These kinds of sources can be found in the archives of the Jewish community of Venice, although not all of the documentation on the history of the many communities and institutions that animated Jewish Venetian life from the beginning of the 16th century was preserved. In 1912, Edgardo Morpurgo published his report on Jewish cultural heritage in the Veneto, and noted that the archive was mostly dispersed and that there was no inventory. Only at the beginning of the 1980s was the archive rearranged and an inventory of 610 items published.7 The archive houses the remains of the archives of the communities, societies, and synagogues that were active from the beginning of the 16th century. The early documents, those of the Università degli ebrei levantini, date to 1589. Others institutions represented in the archives include the Scuola of the Ponentine Jews, Scuola levantina, Scuola italiana, Scuola spagnola, Scuola canton, and several charitable institutions. The Fraterna generale israelitica di culto e beneficenza, the general community for all the Jews of Venice, was established in 1797. The archive of the Fraterna holds most of the community archive, with documents from 1797 until today. In 1930, the Fraterna changed its name to Comunità israelitica and in 1989, to Comunità ebraica. These archives also contain the archives of the Rabbinical Office, the archives of some minor institutions, and the personal archives of community leaders such as Dante Lattes, one of the outstanding Jewish Italian leaders of the 20th century. Only two minute books were preserved in the archives, neither of which has been published: Libro delle parti dell’Università dei ponentini, from the second half of the 17th century (1669–1691), written in

6 The list is based on the publications that will be mentioned in the following notes. 7 E. Morpurgo, Inchiesta sui monumenti e documenti del Veneto interessanti la storia religiosa, civile e letteraria degli ebrei (Udine 1912), p. 18; Inventario dell’archivio della Comunità Israelitica di Venezia, E. Tonetti (ed.) (Venice 1984).



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Spanish-Portuguese, and the Registro delle parti della scuola levantina, from the end of the 17th century to the beginning of the 18th century (1686–1727), written in Italian.8 Two other such books are also known: the minute book of the council of the Italian Jewish community of Venice for the years 1644–1711, published by Daniel Carpi and conserved in the library of the Jewish Theological Seminary (ms 8594), and the so-called Libro grande, the Italian translation of community records from 1607 to 1624, published by David Malkiel and conserved in the Venetian Archivio di Stato (Cattaveri, b. 242).9 Padua The archive of Padua was always well cared for by the leaders of the community and only in the second half of the 20th century were they partially lost. The archive was inventoried in 1882 by Rabbi Giuseppe Basevi, who listed 216 files and books dating from the beginning of the 15th century to the beginning of the 19th century. In 1912, Morpurgo expanded Basevi’s inventory with some birth, wedding and death registers; ketubot; remnants of archives of charitable institutions and synagogues; and burial maps. In 1935, Yeshaiu Sonne inspected the archives and the libraries of the Jewish Italian communities, on behalf of the Union of Jewish Italian Communities, and confirmed this situation.10 The archives survived the Second World War but already in 1956, there were reports that some items were lost. As recently as 2003, Professor Pier Cesare Ioly Zorattini visited the archives, reported that 61 items from Basevi’s inventory were missing, and subsequently published this inventory. It is possible that in 1959, some items were transferred to the Central Archives for the History of the Jewish People in Jerusalem, but today there is no trace of them. All the material in the archive was microfilmed in 1959 and can be viewed at the Central Archives.11 8 Inventario, cit., n. 2, p. 11; n. 15, p. 15. 9 Minute Book of the Council of the “Italian” Jewish Community of Venice, 1644–1711, D. Carpi (ed.) (Jerusalem 2003) [Hebrew]; D.J. Malkiel, A Separate Republic. The Mechanics and Dynamics of Venetian Jewish Self-Government, 1607–1624 (Jerusalem 1991). 10 Morpurgo, cit., pp. 16–17; Y. Sonne, Relazioni sulle comunità israelitiche: Padova (Rome 1937), pp. 3–7. 1 1  P.C. Ioly Zorattini, “L’archivio antico della comunità ebraica di Padova,” in Una manna buona per Mantova. Studi in onore di Vottore Colorni, M. Perani (ed.) (Florence 2004), pp. 507–538.

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All the minute books from 1577 to the end of the 18th century have been preserved, and the early Hebrew books up until 1630 have been published by Carpi.12 The archive of another community of the Veneto, Rovigo, is also preserved in Padua but have not yet been arranged or recorded.13 Verona The case of the archive of Verona is the most peculiar in the Veneto. In 1912, Morpurgo reported that the archive had recently been rearranged and among the 229 items there were books and files, as well as the earliest minute books preserved in the archives of Italian Jewish communities, starting from 1539. However in 1935, Sonne found “uno stato di completo disordine,” a state of absolute confusion: he was aware of the Morpurgo findings, and he had an impression of a great wealth of documents, but he could not find any evidence of the reorganisation. Sonne did search for, and ultimately found, the first minute books of the community council.14 Some years later, the Second World War threatened the archives of the community, but fortunately, just before the Nazi occupation in 1943, the rabbi, Ermanno Friedenthal, sent some documents to Israel. Fourteen minute books of the community, dating from 1539 to 1803, and fourteen minute books of societies are located today in the National Library of Israel in Jerusalem. Yaakov Booksenboim published the earlier books. Only one minute book was left in the archives. After the occupation, the archive was sacked by the Italians and the Germans.15 All that is left in the Verona community archive today are 19th-century demographic registers, the 20th-century archive, and some materials from charitable institutions, the so-called Opere Pie. Other material is contained in the Roth Collection, housed in Broterton Library, Leeds, UK. In his report, Sonne states that when Cecil Roth visited the Verona community, he unofficially took many items away with him.16 12 Minute Book of the Council of the Jewish Community of Padua. 13 Viterbo, cit., p. 28. 14 Morpurgo, cit., p. 18; Sonne, cit., Verona, pp. 6–9. 15 La biblioteca della comunità ebraica di Verona. Il fondo ebraico, D. Bramati (ed.) (Verona 1999), pp. CLXIII–CLXVI; Minute Book of the Jewish Community of Verona, 3 vv., Y. Boksenboim (ed.) (Tel Aviv 1989–1990), I, 1539–1584, II, 1584–1600, III, 1600–1630. See also the list of the eighteen minute books in the National Library of Israel (formerly the Jewish National and University Library) in the appendix of this article. 16 La biblioteca, cit.; Sonne, cit., p. 6.



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Conclusion The case of the archives of the Jewish communities in the Veneto raises the question of how best to ensure the preservation of these archives. Since the new agreement signed in 1989 between the Italian Government and the Union of Italian Jewish Communities, the Italian Ministry of Cultural Heritage is now cooperating with the Union to preserve anything related to Jewish cultural heritage in Italy, including the archives. Within the framework of this agreement, the Italian Government is not only assisting the archives of Rome and Turin, several archives in Tuscany, and the archives preserved in the Library of the Union and some of the Jewish cultural institutions, but it has also organised training sessions for archivists from Jewish institutions. However, there is always the possibility that in the future, in a different political situation, the archives would not be safe. In 2001, Micaela Procaccia wrote: Preserving Jewish archives in Italy appears to be on the right path but they are still in danger, because Italian Jews are few, because we began to look at them too late, because many archives come from ancient communities that no longer exist, [and] because we do not always find a common feeling about cooperation. Sometimes it seems easier . . . to send everything to Israel.17

Today it is not possible to send archives to Israel. I would like to suggest that the best way to preserve the archives would be to scan them all and keep the digital copy in Israel for research and future preservation, replicating the method used in the Hebrew manuscripts project at the National Library of Israel. This would be a joint project undertaken by Israeli cultural institutions, such as the Central Archives for the History of the Jewish People and the National Library of Israel, which, with the support of the Israel and Italian Governments, would be an ideal pursuit for the Italia Judaica project.

17 Procaccia, cit., p. 143.

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ariel viterbo Appendix Items from the archive of the Jewish community of Verona in the National Library of Israel

The minute books of the Jewish community and societies of Verona, found in the Manuscripts Department of the National Library of Israel, Jerusalem. 1) 1545–1610. 298 p. Heb. 4º 552. 2) 1593–1639. 92 p. Heb. 4º 567. 3) 1599–1600. 17 p. Heb. 4º 558. 4) 1599–1639. 134 p. Heb. 4º 564. 5) 1600–1642. 180p. Heb. 4º 563. 6) 1610–1653. 195 p. Heb. 4º 554. 7) 1612–1682. 28 p. Heb. 8º 1810. 8) 1653–1706. 295 p. Heb. 4º 551. 9) (com. ashkenazita). 1653–1737. 171 p. Heb. 4º 553. 10) 1658–1660. 43 p. Heb. 4º 569. 11) 1660. 86 p. Heb. 4º 568. 12) 1678–1679. 73 p. Heb. 8º 1811. 13) 1728–1760. 183, 60 p. Heb. 4º 556. 14) 1728–1803. 280 p. Heb. 4º 557. 15) Minute book of Confraternita Chavurat Rachamim. 1615–1779. 111p. Heb. 4º 561. 16) Minute book of Confraternita Gemilut Chassadim. 1576–1802. 116 p. Heb. 4º 560. 17) Minute book of Confraternita Gomel Dalim. 1742–1865. 50 p. Heb. 4º 565. 18) Minute book of Confraternita Shomrim la-Boker. 1640–1755. 100 p. Heb. 4º 559. In the Archives Department of the National Library is kept the archive of Rabbi David Shmuel Pardo (Ragusa 1792—Verona 1858), Chief Rabbi of Verona (call number ARC. 4º 360).

The Jewish Presence in Sicily as Reflected in Medieval Sicilian Historiography Nadia Zeldes Until the publication of Giovanni Di Giovanni’s famous L’ebraismo della Sicilia, ricercato ed esposto in the 18th century,1 no historical work concerning Sicily devoted more than a few paragraphs to a Jewish presence there. And yet, it is worthwhile analysing the references to Jews in Sicilian historiography since they reflect changing attitudes of the elites over the course of time. A total disregard for a Jewish presence in accounts of the Norman Conquest is replaced by sporadic references in later historical works, to become an acute awareness of the “other” by the 15th century. As for the choice of sources, this article concerns itself with only those historical works that focus on the history of the Sicilian kingdom, even when written by non-Sicilians.2 It should be emphasised that the main emphasis of this study is the narratives that emerge from these works, rather than an attempt at fact finding to reconstruct the history of the Jews in Sicily. The histories of the Norman conquest of Sicily, and in particular the chronicle of Geoffrey Malaterra, offer detailed accounts of the military campaigns and encounters between the Normans and their allies, and the Muslim and Greek populations of Sicily. No mention is made of Jews in this narrative, despite the Jews’ strong support for the Muslim cause, as seen in letters written by Jews that were preserved in the Cairo Geniza. These letters clearly mirror the attitudes of Muslims and Jews who feared the Norman advance and lamented the fall of the last strongholds held by the Muslims of Sicily.3

1  G. Di Giovanni, L’ebraismo della Sicilia, ricercato ed esposto (Palermo 1748). 2 G. Fasoli, “Cronache medievali di Sicilia. Note di orientmento,” Siculorum Gymnasium, N.S. II (1949), pp. 186–241 (186–187). 3 Geniza letters referring to the Norman conquest: INA D-55 no. 13, T-S 16.179, Mosseri Collection II, 128: M. Ben Sasson (ed.), The Jews of Sicily, 825–1068 (Jerusalem 1991), nos. 7, 8, 9 [Hebrew]; M. Gil, In the Kingdom of Ismael (Tel Aviv-Jerusalem 1997), III–IV, nos. 616, 617, 460; S. Simonsohn, The Jews in Sicily (Leiden 1997), I, nos. 141, 122, 158; N. Zeldes, “‘The News from Sicily is Very Bad’—Jewish Testimony on the Norman Conquest of Sicily,” Peamim, 46–7 (1991), pp. 260–269 [Hebrew]. See also Gil, ibid., I, pp. 550–558.

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The 11th-century chronicles concerning the Norman conquest of Sicily are considered by modern scholars as historiographical masterpieces “which, in literary quality as well as in thoroughness and accuracy were to remain unsurpassed until the advent of humanism,” to quote Eric Cochrane’s Historians and Historiography in the Italian Renaissance.4 As these works were trying to emulate classical historiography, favourite topics were the actions and motivations of the Norman leaders, the enemy, and the military campaigns, all of which suited the classical style. Perhaps this explains, at least in part, the omission of references to the Jews. The exception to this rule (also as regards style) is the chronicle of the monk Amatus of Montecassino, the earliest account of the conquest. Although this chronicle does not mention Sicilian Jews, one of its chapters relates the story of a Christian youth who was tempted by the Jews of Salerno to convert to Judaism. The story ends with a miracle that returns the youth to his original faith. This tale could have been influenced by actual cases of conversion to Judaism in southern Italy during this period, such as that of Archbishop Andreas of Bari in the mid-11th century or even that of the Norman nobleman later known as Ovadiah the Proselyte (Ovadiah ha-Ger), which occurred at the beginning of the 12th century (as does the story of the youth of Salerno).5 This is, however, the only place Jews are mentioned at all in Amatus’s chronicle. It is therefore possible that the 4 E. Cochrane, Historians and Historiography in the Italian Renaissance (ChicagoLondon 1981), p. 140. 5 Amatus is thought to have died in 1101. However, only a 14th-century translation of his chronicle into French survived; therefore, it is possible that the story of the youth of Salerno is a later interpolation. On Amatus, see: K.B. Wolf, Making History. The Normans and Their Historians in Eleventh Century Italy (Philadelphia 1995), pp. 85–122; H. Cowdrey, The Age of Abbot Desiderius: Montecassino, the Papacy, and the Normans in the Eleventh and Early Twelfth Centuries (Oxford 1983). On the conversion of Andreas, see B. Blumenkranz, “La conversion au Judaisme d’André, Archeveque de Bari,” Journal of Jewish Studies, 14 (1963), pp. 33–36. There are several studies concerning Ovadiah, the Norman proselyte. The most recent are the following: C. Colafemmina, “La conversione al giudaismo di Andrea, arcivescovo di Bari: una suggestione per Giovanni-Ovadiah da Oppido,” in Giovanni-Ovadiah da Oppido, proselito, viaggiatore e musicista dell’età normanna, atto del convegno internazionale, Oppido Lucano, 28–30 Marzo, A. De Rosa and M. Perani (eds.) (Florence 2005), pp. 55–65; N. Golb, “La conversione di Giovanni-Ovadiah al giudaismo nel suo contesto storico, con particolare riferimento ai documenti della Genizah del Cairo,” in Giovanni-Ovadiah, pp. 67–91; V. Von Falkenhausen, “Identità religiose in una società multiculturale: l’Italia meridionale nell’epoca di Giovanni-Ovadiah,” in Giovanni-Ovadiah, pp. 25–44; R. Bonfil, “Ovadiah da Oppido: riflessioni sul significato culturale di una conversione,” in Giovanni-Ovadiah, pp. 45–54. See also: J. Prawer, “The Autobiography of Ovadiah the Norman Proselyte,” Tarbiz, 45 (1976), pp. 272–295 [Hebrew]; idem, “The Autobiography of Obadyah, a Convert to Judaism at the Time of the First Crusade,” in Studies in Medieval Jewish History and Literature, I. Twersky (ed.) (Cambridge 1979), pp. 110–134.



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story of the conversion and repentance of the Christian youth of Salerno was in fact added later to the original version.6 Another reason for the lack of references to the Jews in historical works of this period can probably be explained by the identification of the Sicilian Jews with the Muslims. Since the Arabic-speaking Jews were seen as part of the enemy population, it is likely that no distinction was made between them and the Muslims, at least not initially. For example, both Malaterra and Amatus describe the taking of Messina around the year 1062. According to Amatus, women and children of the enemy were taken into captivity, and according to Malaterra, those who survived the massacre escaped on ships to Palermo.7 A Geniza letter written at the time of the conquest confirms that the Muslims of Messina were killed in great numbers, but it informs the correspondent that Jews, too, died by the sword and twelve Jewish families were taken prisoner.8 When Jews are mentioned at all in the later chronicles, it is either together with the Muslims or in a “Muslim” context. A passage found in the 12th-century chronicle of Romuald of Salerno attributes to King Roger II an attempt to convert Jews and Muslims to Christianity: “Towards the end of his life . . . he laboured in every conceivable way to convert Jews and Muslims to the faith of Christ, and endowed converts with many gifts and resources.”9 Though no other contemporary sources confirm King Roger’s attempts to convert his non-Christian subjects, there is no doubt that the author of this statement believed that attributing this deed to King Roger, a ruler described by some of his contemporaries as “Rex tyrannus” and as being rather too tolerant toward the Saracens, would improve

6 The story of the Christian youth of Salerno: Vincenzo De Bartholomeis (ed.), Storia dei Normanni di Amato di Montecassino volgarizzata in antico francese (Rome 1935), 105–106; Amatus of Montecassino, The History of the Normans, P.N. Dunbar and G. Loud (eds. and transl.) (Suffolk 2004), pp. 81–82. On the possibility of its being a later interpolation, see H. Houben, “Possibilità e limiti della tolleranza religiosa nel Mezzogiorno Normanno-Svevo,” in Mezzogiorno Normanno-Svevo. Monasteri e castelli, ebrei e musulmani (Naples 1996), p. 220. 7 On the fall of Messina: “et li normant secur entrent en la cite. et partent entre eaux la moillier et li filz, li servicial, et la masserie, et ce que li troverent de ceuz qui s’en estoient fuoys,” Amatus, ibid., p. 237; “urbe capta, turres et propugnacola eius diruit : quos invenerunt interfectis, quibusdam vero ad Panormitanas naves transfugientibus . . . ,” Malaterra, p. 32. 8 INA D-55 No. 13 (see note 3 above). 9 “Circa finem autem vite sue secularibus negotiis aliquantulum postpositis et ommissis, Iudeos et Sarracenos ad fidem Christi convertere modiis omnibus laborabat, et conversis dona plurima et necessaria conferebat,” Romualdus Salernitanus, Cronicon, C.A. Garufi (ed.), RIS, VIII (Bologna 1935), p. 236.

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his image for posterity.10 In any case, the efforts at conversion, real or fictitious, are supposedly directed at both groups alike. A different passage found in Romuald’s chronicle manifests some confusion between Jewish and Muslim practices of worship when telling the story of the eunuch Philip of al-Mahdiya. The eunuch, a Muslim converted to Christianity, was accused of “unwillingly entering the churches of God while visiting frequently the synagogues of the Evil One” (synagogas malignantium visitabat frequentius).11 Modern scholarship concluded that both of the above-mentioned passages were interpolations that had been added to the original text of Romuald; nonetheless, these interpolations were made no later than the end of the 12th century or the beginning of the 13th, according to Jeremy Johns and others.12 Thus, even if Romuald did not write them, they still reflect the mentality of the period. Returning to our argument, indeed, why was a supposedly secret Muslim accused of visiting synagogues, unless the author confused them with mosques? The confusion between the religion of Jews and Muslims in the high Middle Ages is not peculiar to Sicily, nor is the linkage between Jew and Muslim as a representation of the “other” in the coalescing concept of a Christian community that was becoming increasingly important during this period.13 To quote Jeremy Cohen on this topic: “As the only religious minority which the Latin West knew and tolerated during the early Middle Ages, the Jews inevitably provided Christendom a paradigm for the evaluation and classification of the Muslim ‘other’ . . . canon law habitually treated Muslim and Jew in tandem. The Latin Christian encounter

10 On the controversial image of King Roger II, see H. Wieruszowski, “Roger II of Sicily, Rex-Tyrannus, in Twelfth-Century Political Thought,” Speculum 38 (1963), pp. 46–78; H. Houben, Roger II of Sicily. A Ruler Between East and West (Cambridge 2002), pp. 60–97, 126–135. 11 “Rex Rogerius quendam eunuchum habuit Philippum nomine . . . hic enim sub clamide christiani nominis diaboli militem gerebat absconditum . . . christianos oderat, paganos plurimum diligebat, Dei ecclesias inuitus intrabat, sinagogas malignantium visitabat frequentius et eis oleum ad concinnanda luminaria et que erat necessaria ministrabat,” Romualdus, pp. 234–236. On Philip of al-Mahdiya see J. Johns, Arabic Administration in Norman Sicily (Cambridge 2002), pp. 215–218; A. Metcalfe, “The Muslims of Sicily Under Christian Rule,” in The Society of Norman Italy, G.A. Loud and A. Metcalfe (eds.) (Leiden 2002), pp. 289–317. 12 On this problematic passage, see D. Matthew, “The Chronicle of Romuald of Salerno,” in The Writing of History in the Middle Ages: Essays Presented to Richard William Southern, R.H. Davis and J.M. Wallace-Hadrill (eds.) (Oxford 1981), pp. 239–274; Houben, King Roger II, pp. 110–112. 13 On this concept, see R.I. Moore, The Formation of a Persecuting Society (Oxford 2007).



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with Islam caused Jews and Judaism to lose some of their distinctiveness in the Western Christian mindset, to be classified as members of larger groups of infideles and infidelitas.”14 Although the Sicilian royal administration had no trouble distinguishing between the various religious groups, the historiography of this period reflects a possibly intentional blurring of religious identities that tends to group together all “infidels.” However, the term synagogas malignantium is too well rooted in Christian tradition to be a mere slip of the pen. The contrast between the Church of God and the synagogue of evil appears already in Revelation: “I know the blasphemy of them which say they are Jews, and they are not, but they are the synagogue of Satan” (Revelation II, 9). Thus, the author of this passage uses the contradiction between God’s Church and the synagogue of the Evil One in order to extend the negative imagery of the synagogue to include Muslim places of worship and to create a parallel between Jewish perfidy and Muslim perfidy. But the choice of this particular imagery demonstrates, in my opinion, the author’s perspective on the Jews. Moreover, it stands to reason that the author expected his readers to recognise the term synagoga malignantium and its allusion to the Revelation and thus, the enormity of the betrayal of the Muslim convert. To return to the conquest chronicles, lack of interest in the Jews in the writings of this period can probably also be explained by the absence of contact between the groups, since the conquerors had no need for Jews to act as intermediaries between them and the Muslims. While in the Iberian Peninsula, Christian rulers needed the services of Arabic-speaking Jews as translators, administrators, and financiers, in Norman Sicily, the Greek population successfully fulfilled these roles.15 Another factor that should be taken into account is the rôle of Sicilian historical works in the construction of a Christian, and even a national, identity. It was important to represent the conquest as a victory of 14 J. Cohen, “The Muslim Connection or On the Changing Role of the Jew in High Medieval Theology,” in From Witness to Witchcraft. Jews and Judaism in Medieval Christian Thought, J. Cohen (ed.) (Wiesbaden 1996), pp. 141–162. 15 V. von Falkenhausen, “La presenza dei Greci nella Sicilia normanna. L’apporto della documentazione archivistica in lingua greca,” Byzantino-Sicula, IV (2002), pp. 34–39; A. Metcalfe, Muslims and Christians in Norman Sicily. Arabic Speakers and the End of Islam (London-New York 2002), pp. 13–29. Johns, The Arabic Administration; D.J. Geanakoplos, “The Greek Population of South Italy and Sicily and Its Attitudes to Charles of Anjou and Michael Paleologus Before and After the Early Phase of the Sicilian Vespers,” in XI Congresso di storia della corona d’Aragona. Palermo-Trapani-Erice 25–30 aprile 1982 (Palermo 1984), III, pp. 177–182.

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Christianity over the infidel, strengthening the image of the Sicilian monarchy and convincing its opponents of its legitimacy. The Jews had no rôle in this narrative, but the conflict with the Muslims and their integration into the kingdom played a central part. Thus, the 12th-century chronicle written by an anonymous author and attributed to Hugo Falcandus makes no mention of the Jews in Sicily, though it has much to say about the Muslims.16 Only after the disappearance of the Muslims do the Jews become a visible “other.” It is significant that Simone da Lentini’s 14th-century adaptation of Malaterra’s chronicle inadvertently introduces Jews into the text. In the original version, Malaterra tells the story of the betrayal of Catania by its Muslim governor, an ally of the Normans, who gave the city to the lord of Syracuse, a Muslim named Benaver (Ibn el-Werd). Malaterra accuses the traitor of greediness (avaritia) and describes him as paganus traditor. But the Franciscan Simone da Lentini automatically associates betrayal with Jews and remarks: “Note that proverb [that says] that no Jew can be a good Christian” (Nota illu proverbiu chi nullu Iudeu pò essiri bonu cristianu).17 Simone da Lentini’s views reflect the deterioration of the Jews’ position in Sicily during the 14th century, probably precipitated by the anti-Jewish legislation of 1310 passed by the Aragonese King Frederick II (1296–1337) of Sicily.18 However, a significant change in the status of the Jews occurred already during the reign of Emperor Frederick II (1212–1250). In this period, the Sicilian Jews’ image as a margina l group, belonging to a different social and legal category, bore a closer resemblance to the Jews’ image and status in other lands of Christian Europe. The chronicle of Richard of St. Germano, a notary in the service of Frederick II, approves the emperor’s legislation of 1221 “against dice players, blasphemers, Jews who should be distinguished in their clothing from the Christians, and prostitutes.”19 The 16 G.B. Siragusa (ed.), La historia, o liber de regno sicilie di Ugo Falcando (Rome 1897). For an English translation, see G.A. Loud and T. Wiedemann (transl.), The History of Tyrants of Sicily by ‘Hugo Falcandus’ 1154–1169 (Manchester 1998). 17 S. Da Lentini, G. Rossi Taibbi (eds.), La conquesta di Sicilia fatta per li Normandi (Palermo 1954), p. 97, and compare with Malaterra, De rebus gestis, pp. 75–76. On this incident, see G.A. Loud, The Age of Robert Guiscard (Essex 2000), p. 170. 18 On the Aragonese King Frederick’s legislation, see C.W. Backman, The Decline and Fall of Medieval Sicily (Cambridge 1995), pp. 20, 150–151, 202–208, 215–220; Simonsohn, The Jews in Sicily, II, No. 339, pp. 613–615. 19 “Imperator . . . feliciter in Siciliam transferrat, et Messane regens curiam generalem, quasdam ibi statuit ascisias observandas, contra lusores taxillorum et alearum nomen Domini blasphemantes, contra Iudeos, ut in diferentia vestium et gestorum a christianis



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laws ordering distinctive clothing for the Jews were probably no more than an implementation of the rulings of the Fourth Lateran Council (1215), but the new context is significant. The Jews are no longer grouped together with the Muslims (although there still is a Muslim presence in Sicily in this period); instead, they are subject to the same limitations as other marginal groups verging on the criminal: gamblers, blasphemers, and prostitutes who must be made visible in order to restrict their contact with the rest of society. The author then describes the distinctive clothing and appearance the Jews should assume: they should wear a blue-coloured outer garment, and men must grow a beard, etc., to distinguish them from the Christians. Despite the great number of studies on Frederick II and the Jews, so far there has been no attempt to explain the adoption of this particular mode of clothing, as nowhere in Christian Europe were the Jews constrained to wear blue garments. But it is possible that Frederick was inspired by a Muslim, rather than a Christian, model of discrimination. In 1198, the Almohad ruler, Abu Yusuf Ya’aqub al-Mansur, ordered the Jews of North Africa to wear blue tunics with very long sleeves and blue hats, as well as a distinctive badge.20 Given Frederick’s close relations with the

discernantur, contra meretrices . . . edictum Iudeis omnibus proponimus . . . ut quilibet super vestimenta que induet gestet lineum vestimentum clausum undique et tinctum colore celesti, et secundum sue tempus aetatis barbam nutriat . . . et ex illo pervenit errore quod est inimicum et horridum pudicite christiane. . .,” Ryccardi de Sancto Germano, A. Gaudenzi (ed.), Cronicon (Naples 1888), pp. 104–105; Simonsohn, The Jews in Sicily, I, No. 210. Modern scholars interpret Emperor Frederick’s policies towards the Jews in different ways. Two examples illustrate this difference of opinion: according to David Abulafia, the assizes of Messina indicate deterioration in the status of the Jews. Both Jews and prostitutes are considered outsiders who threaten to contaminate Christian society, and therefore they must be made visible. This legislation raises other questions, too. Frederick’s tolerance towards the Jews, praised by many historians, seems called into doubt. Another connection between Jews and prostitutes was the concern that sinful sexual liaisons should be controlled: D. Abulafia, Frederick II. A Medieval Emperor (London 1988), pp. 143–144. Hubert Houben, on the other hand, argues that Frederick’s policy was one of tolerance and protection, citing his condemnation of the blood libels against the Jews. The assizes of Messina he dismisses as “dead letters,” arguing that in that period, the emperor needed to make concessions to the Church. Houben, “Possibilità e limiti della tolleranza,” p. 220; id., “Federico e gli ebrei,” Nuova Rivista Storica 85/2 (2001), pp. 325–346 (discussion on the assizes of Messina: p. 336). Nevertheless, Richard of St. Germano quotes the laws of 1221 and regards them as an important achievement. 20 R. Brunschvig, La Berbérie orientale sous les Hafsides. Des origines à la fin du XVe siècle (Paris 1940–1947), p. 404. Recently, Giuseppe Mandalà argued that the worsening conditions under Almohad rule provoked a large migration of Maghrebi Jews to Sicily: G. Mandalà, “La migrazione degli ebrei del Garbum in Sicilia (1239),” Materia Giudaica 11 (2006), pp. 179–199 (for Almohad ordinances regarding Jewish dress: ibid., pp. 194–195).

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Muslim world of his time and Maghrebi scholars in particular,21 it is probable that he knew of al-Mansur’s ordinances. There is no proof that Frederick’s orders regarding distinctive garments were actually enforced in Sicily, and yet they signal a change in attitude towards the Jewish presence in Sicily. The next appearance of the Jews in Sicilian historiography brings us to the period of the Vespers. Bartholomeo de Neocastro in the Historia Sicula, written at the end of the 13th century, twice mentions the participation of the Jews in welcoming ceremonies, showing the Torah scrolls to a high ranking visitor. Descriptions of the entrance of a prince, a king, or a prelate, the celebration of a coronation or a royal marriage, are fairly common in medieval historiography and in most cases, there is a pattern that accords certain roles to all participants, including the Jews. To quote Amnon Linder in a recent publication, the prevailing attitude is one of inclusion: “The Jews too were not absent.”22 In the earlier part of his chronicle, Bartholomeo da Neocastro describes the coming to Sicily in 1254 of an apostolic legate, the Franciscan Ruffino da Piacenza. Rufino da Piacenza’s entry into Messina was enthusiastically attended by the whole population, including the Jews “who offered their Law.”23 The description of this ceremony alludes to the celebration of Palm Sunday, commemorating Jesus’ arrival in Jerusalem, and it is worth pointing out that Bartholomeo da Neocastro calls the Jews “the Jerusalem people,” thus clearly invoking the image of the Gospel scene. The Jews are also present in the description of King Peter of Aragon’s entry into Messina in October 1282: “The Pharii (meaning the inhabitants of the area of Messina, also known as the pharos) received the king. People came from the camps and from all places to the city. Men and women’s voices merrily applauded [the king]. The synagogue of the Jews revealed

21 A. Udovitch, “Muslims and Jews in the World of Frederick II: Boundaries and Communication,” Princeton Papers in Near Eastern Studies 2 (1993), pp. 83–104; D. Abulafia, “Ethnic Variety and Its Implications: Frederick II’s Relations with Jews and Muslims,” Studies in the History of Art 44 (1994), pp. 213–224; and more recently: Ibn Sab’in, Le questioni siciliane. Federico II e l’universo filosofico, P. Spallino (ed.) (Palermo 2002). 22 On Jews participating in ceremonial entrances during the Middle Ages, see A. Linder, “‘The Jews too were Not Absent . . . Carrying Moses’s Law on Their Shoulders’: The Ritual Encounter of Pope and Jews from the Middle Ages to Modern Times,” JQR 99 (2009), pp. 323–396. 23 “Parvuli cantant; Osanna in excelsis; sacerdotes et senese palmas et ramos olivares perferunt, et a facie eius Hierosolimitanus populus legem profert,” Bartholomei de Neocastro, “Historia Sicula,” G. Paladino (ed.), RIS, XIII (Bologna 1922), p. 5.



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the Law. Priests and clerics came in a procession before the king, followed by the children. The king alone rode a horse.”24 The use of the Latin expression legem aperuit (revealed the Law) is interesting. The choice of this particular verb indicates that the Torah scrolls were kept in closed cases, to be shown or revealed only on special occasions. This custom is, in fact, central to the story of Megillat Saragossa, a legendary text that most scholars nowadays agree that it refers to the communities of Syracuse in Sicily rather than Saragossa of Aragon. According to the story, for several years the Jews showed the king empty cases (‫ )תיקים רקים‬until their subterfuge was revealed by a Jewish convert to Christianity.25 The deception described in the Megilla would not have been possible unless it were customary for the Jews of Syracuse (and presumably other Sicilian communities) to keep Torah scrolls in closed cases. The description of King Peter’s entry into Messina indicates a matter-offact acceptance of the Jews’ participation in the ceremonies. It is noteworthy that other contemporary sources confirm that King Peter enjoyed the support of the Jews; Jewish courtiers from Aragon and Catalonia financed the king’s campaign, and the Catalan Jew Joseph Ravaya performed a special role as the king’s representative in Sicily until his death in late 1282.26 The chronicle of Saba Malaspina that also describes the events of

24 “. . . regem recipiunt Pharii. Jam nec campus, nec locus turmas populi explicat, civitatem ingreditur, jocundis applaudunt vocibus mares et foeminae; Judeorum synagoga legem aperuit; ante conspectum regis praeibant sacri padres, et ordinatus clerus subsequitur parvulorum; solus rex eques medius vehitur,” Neocastro, “Historia Sicula,” p. 42. 25 D. Simonsen, “Le Pourim de Saragosse est un Pourim de Syracuse,” REJ 59 (1910), pp. 90–95. And more recently: D. Burgaretta, “Il Purim di Siracusa alla luce dei testimoni manoscritti,” Materia Giudaica, XI/1–2 (2006), pp. 51–80. Burgaretta lists the various extant manuscripts of the Scroll and publishes Ms. 217, Cecil Roth Collection, Brotherton Library, Leeds University, in the Appendix. Though the earliest manuscripts date from the 18th century, it is probable that this story was transmitted orally for several generations until it was finally written down. The celebration of the feast and reading of the Megillah on the 17th of Shevat were customary among families of Sicilian origin living in Salonica: A. Milano, Storia degli ebrei italiani nel Levante (Florence 1949), pp. 155–156; J. Nehama, Histoire des Israélites de Salonique (Salonica 1953–1978), III, Ch. V; G. Palermo, The Passage of Sicilian Jews to the Eastern Mediterranean After the Expulsion, M.A. thesis, The Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 1993, pp. 34, 42 [Hebrew]; Burgaretta, “Il Purim,” pp. 51, 53–55. 26 On Ravaya: D. Romano, “El judío Jucef Ravaya tesorero real en la ocupación de Sicilia,” in XI Congresso di storia della corona d’Aragona (Palermo 1983), pp. 149–159; S. Simonsohn, The Jews in Sicily, I, nos. 235–245.

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the Vespers’ war attributes a central role to a Jew who advised the king in his campaign against the Muslims of Tunisia.27 Sicilian chronicles of the 14th century do not mention the Jews, with the exception of Simone da Lentini’s vernacular rendition of Malaterra. A special, even strangely insistent attention to the Jewish presence in Sicily permeates the history of Palermo written by the Dominican Pietro Ranzano (1428–1492), one of Sicily’s first humanists. In his booklet De auctore et primordiis ac progressu felicis urbi Panorni, written in 1471, the author describes two episodes concerning Jews. One relates to the Jews’ participation in public celebrations, in this case, the festivities held in honour of the marriage of Ferdinand and Isabella in November 1469. The other describes the author’s attempts to learn about the history of Palermo from the Jews. Regarding the first incident, Ranzano insists that the Jews were ordered to follow the procession and that the pretore (mayor) of Palermo, Pietro Speciale, gave the Jews full permission to dress in any way they wanted and to wear any kind of shoes or garments that pleased them. Ranzano also mentioned that 400 Jewish youths dressed in silk garments were chosen to play games, sing, and dance.28 The stress placed on the orders of the pretore and the permission given to the Jews to dress up infers that in their everyday lives, they were subject to restrictions, either decreed by the authorities or self imposed. Perhaps the author himself thought that dress restrictions should have been enforced as a rule but relaxed on this special occasion. My interpretation relies on a contemporary text written by Giovanni Naso, another Sicilian humanist. Naso described the celebration that took place in Palermo in 1472 in honour of the victory of King Juan of Aragon (Ferdinand’s father) 27 Saba Malaspina: canon of Mileto in Calabria. W. Koller (ed.), “Die Kronik des Saba Malaspina,” MGH SS. 35 (Hanover 1999), pp. 300–309. 28 The Latin version was part of a larger work, Annales omnium temporum, parts of which have been lost. The following quotation is from the vernacular version, translated from the Latin by Ranzano himself: “Li Iudei, di li quali grandi numero habita portando ogniuno lu so lumi oy vero intorchi, per ordini andasiro appresso li chitatini. Fichi alloro lu preturi libera potestati, et dettili plena licentia, chi in tantu applausu de la chitati putissiro usari ogni maynera quali volsiro di calcimenti et di vestimenti, et, chi a loro beneplachissi, putissiro usari tucto quillo chi sapissiro excogitari et pensari, puro chi fussi cosa la quali ad allegriza honesta appartinissi. Et cussi circa quatro chento juveni intra di loro eletti, vestiti di preciusi vestimenti et maxime di sita, cui cantando, cui ballando, cui danzando, cui fachendo alcuni belli et di novo trovati jochi et personagi, sequitaro la grandi et ordinata compagna di li cristiani.” Gioacchino di Marzo, Delle origini e vicende di Palermo di Pietro Ransano e dell’entrata di re Alfonso in Napoli (Palermo 1864), p. 54. The bold letters are mine (N.Z.).



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over rebellious Barcelona: “Not even the Jew is missing, although he is always ungainly (semper ineptus) . . . moving crookedly . . . his body sprouting leafy dress ( frondosa veste virere).”29 There is no question that the Jew is criticised here for wearing frilly clothes, too sumptuous for his condition. Naso’s portrayal of the Jew is grotesque and it practically denies the Jews’ right to take part in public festivities. It should be noted that Naso taught Latin and studia humanitatis at the Dominican college of Palermo at approximately the same time as Ranzano. The prevailing atmosphere at the college was, in fact, one of intolerance towards Jews and other marginal groups.30 Nevertheless, Ranzano still adhered to the majority opinion that Jews should be part of the celebrations, although, in my opinion, one can discern an undercurrent of disapproval in his description of the festivities. A different facet of Ranzano’s attitude towards the Jews is revealed by another episode described in his History of Palermo. Having discovered an “ancient” inscription that ran around the circumference of the old tower that stood above the Porta Patitelli in Palermo, Ranzano enlisted the help of the Jews to interpret its meaning. According to Ranzano, the text of the inscription mentioned the biblical figure of Sefo, son of Eliphaz son of Esau son of Isaac (Genesis 36:4–10; Chronicles I, 1:36) as the commander of the old tower. The Dominican concluded that the inscription (supposedly written in Chaldean characters) had been inscribed in biblical times, therefore proving the antiquity of Palermo. The rest of the narrative is devoted to confirming the reading of this inscription. Ranzano describes two encounters with Jews. In the first, unnamed Jews tell him that they can corroborate the reading of the inscription, having learned to read Chaldean characters from their forefathers. The fact that the inscription was actually written in Arabic, in Kufic characters, and the reading is a forgery, does not concern us at the moment. The Jews also told Ranzano about a most ancient book

29 “Nec Iudeus abest. Qui quamquam semper ineptus . . . ac deforme movere . . . ad numeros corpus frondosa veste virere,” Ioannis Nasonis Siculi Panormi, “De spectaculis a Panhormitanis in Aragonei regis laudem editis Barchinonia in fidem eius foeliciter,” Aneddoti storici e letterari siciliani, R. Starrabba (ed.), I (Palermo 1905), pp. 30–31. 30 On Sicilian humanism and the Jews, see N. Zeldes, “The Last Multi-Cultural Encounter in Medieval Sicily: A Dominican Scholar, an Arabic Inscription, and a Jewish Legend,” Mediterranean Historical Review 21 (2006), pp. 159–191; id., “Christians, Jews and Hebrew Books in Fifteenth-Century Sicily—Between Dialogue and Dispute,” forthcoming. On Ranzano’s biography, see B. Figliuolo, La cultura a Napoli nel secondo Quattrocento. Ritratti di protagonist (Udine 1997), pp. 87f.

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(uno antiquissimo libro ebraico), probably ‫( ספר יוסיפון‬Sefer Josippon), which contained the story. Ranzano cautions his readers that he was not easily convinced and he thought that the things he was told were ridiculous (digni di irrisioni). But then he met with a certain Jew of Pisan origin, named Isaac Guglielmo, who was then living in Palermo. Isaac Guglielmo is a central figure in the account written by Ranzano, who claims that the Jew invited him several times to his home. On the first visit, Ranzano was shown a Hebrew book “in which was written all that we have described above.” On his second visit, Isaac Guglielmo tells Ranzano about “another inscription written in that Hebrew book that we have mentioned above.”31 Ranzano does not describe the Jews he encountered in pejorative terms and he apparently considered his visits to Isaac Guglielmo a perfectly natural thing to do. As an heir to Augustinian tradition, Ranzano possibly finds it convenient to portray the Jews as custodians of books, the librarians of the Christians.32 But beyond the Dominican’s views and education, Ranzano also represents the concerns of a man of the Renaissance. He writes excellent Latin, attempts a philological analysis of names of persons and places, is interested in ancient inscriptions as well as local history, and draws learned conclusions from his findings. For Ranzano, the Jews represent a living historical source for the history of his land, resembling the fascination of his contemporaries with Hebraica Veritas (Truth of the Jews) in their search for the roots of Christianity. Interestingly, the Jews appear to cooperate, as if they, too, believed themselves to be part of Sicilian history. The expulsion of 1492 ended this attachment. Despite the well-known protest against the expulsion by certain members of the local elite, official Sicilian historiography presents the departure of the Jews as one of the great achievements of Ferdinand’s reign.33 In 1506, Giovanni Luca Barberi, a high-ranking bureaucrat in the royal administration of Sicily, wrote a chronicle of the kings of Aragon. In this work, he praises King Ferdinand for establishing the Inquisition and expelling the Jews: “. . . in order to 31 “Un altro epigramma chi era scripto in quillo libro ebrayco da nui supra nominato,” di Marzo, Delle origini, p. 65. 32 “Codicem portat Iudaeus, unde credat christianus. Librarii nostri facti sunt,” Augustine of Hippo: Aureli Augustini Opera, Enarrationes in Psalmos, 56.9, CCSL, Vol. 39, p. 700 and “Et spasi per orbem terrarum, facti sunt quasi custodes librorum nostrorum,” Sermones, V, 5, CCSL, Vol. 41, p. 56; and see J. Cohen, Living Letters of the Law. Ideas of the Jew in Medieval Christianity (Berkeley-Los Angeles-London 1999), p. 36. 33 Ferdinand II of Aragon became king of Sicily in 1468 and reigned over the island until his death in 1516. In 1492, he ordered the expulsion of the Jews from Sicily.



the jewish presence in sicily

259

honour the Christian faith, you have established the Holy Inquisition in all the lands subject to your law: you have expelled the perfidious Jews and all infidels from all your reigns, as told above, [therefore you are] worthy of eternal praise and immortal glory.”34 The Dominican Tommaso Fazello (1498–1570) is the author of a monumental book on the history of Sicily, De Rebus Siculis Decades Duae, which starts with the Greek settlement of the island and ends in the author’s own time. This work, written in the erudite Latin of the Renaissance period, was considered the most scholarly and comprehensive history of Sicily until modern times.35 The author, however, shows little concern for the thousand-year-long Jewish presence in Sicily. Only in the ninth volume of this work, where he describes the reign of Ferdinand the Catholic, does Fazello coldly and succinctly mention among the other events of the year 1492 that Ferdinand expelled from Sicily and all his realms any Jew who refused baptism.36 To conclude, Sicilian historiography, despite some peculiarities, is not divorced from the changing attitudes towards the Jews in Christian Europe during the Middle Ages. General trends are indeed reflected in Sicilian chronicles. However, no medieval Sicilian author demonstrates an obsessive concern with the Jews; no one accuses them of well poisoning or crimes against Christianity. The relative absence of interest in the Jewish presence reveals, after all, a modicum of tolerance.

34 “. . . in ipsius cristiane fidey honore per omnes terras tue dicioni subiectas sanctam Inquisicionem instituisti: perfidos Judeos conctosque infideles a tuis Regnis omnino eiciens, que superius enarrata ac si perenni laude immortalique gloria sint,” G.L. Barberi, Genealogia Catholicorum Aragonie Regum, Cronache siciliane inedite della fine del medioevo, F. Giunta (ed.) (Palermo 1955), p. 144. On Barberi, see: G. Zito, “La Legazia Apostolica nel Cinquecento: avvio delle controversie e delle polemiche,” La Legazia Apostolica. Chiesa, potere e società in Sicilia in età medievale e moderna (Rome-Caltanissetta 2000), pp. 119–120. 35 On the author and his work, see the introduction of A. De Rosalia, who translated the original text into modern Italian: Tommaso Fazello, Storia di Sicilia M. Ganci, A. De Rosalia and G. Nuzzo (transl. and ed.), (Palermo 1992); R. Contarino, “Fazello, Tommaso,” in Dizionario biografico degli italiani (Rome 1995), pp. 493–496. The text I am citing is from the second edition printed in 1560 (note 36 below). 36 “Quo etiam anno idem Ferdinandus è Sicilia et caeteris sui Imperii Regnis Iudeos omnes, qui Christi lavacro allui noluerant, expulit,” T. Fazello, De Rebus Siculis Decades Duae (Palermo 1560), p. 595.

Index of Names Abraham Ibn Ezra 9 Abraham Ha-Cohen 63 Abraham of Otranto 22 Abraham Yagel 171–172 Abramo di Buonaventura 102–103, 105 Abramunt de Abramunt 33 Abravanel, Iacob (Don) 30 Abravanel, Isaac 13–15, 17, 20, 235 Abravanel, Josef 28 Abravanel, Letizia 28 Abravanel, Samuel 26–27 Abravanel, family 13–20, 26–28, 36 Ahitub (of Palermo) 173, 176 Alconstantini, Dolsa 59 Alfa, Moyse 26 Allegro di Vitale 100 Amittay ben Shefatyah (Shephatiah) 32, 71 Anav, Biniamin 176 Andrectus, Perfectus 31 Angelo de Abraham 35 Angelo de Troya (mastro) 34 Angelo di Salomone da Roma 100 Anna di Vitale 105 Aqrish, Moses B. Hayim 44 Aquinas, Thomas 49, 222 Aretino, Pietro 159 Artom, Beniamino 193 Ascoli, Graziadio Isaia 182–183 Ashkenasi, Solomon 236 Azaria de’ Rossi 54, 176–179 Azariah Ibn Ephraim ben Joab 5–10 Babbi, Anna Maria 145 Baer, Ytzhak 87 Barberi, Giovanni Luca 258 Barsanti, Danilo 116 Baruchson, Shifra 181 Barzilai, Giuseppe 182, 184 Beckmann, Gustav Adolf 160 Benamozegh, Eliahu 182, 190 Benmeymun, Chayono 227 Benvenisti, Angelo 23–24 Bernheimer, Carlo 193 Besso, Marco 182, 186, 194 Biondo, Andrea 228 Bisticci (da), Vespasiano 131

Bokher, Elye see Levita, Elia Boksenboim, Yacov 86, 90, 92 Bonello, Oduardo 25 Bonfil, Roberto 72, 82, 164, 174–175 Bonifacio, Baldassare 177 Borlazzo (de), Roberto 26 Borso d’Este 40 Brachono Mizoc 228 Calabrese, Iacobo 34 Campanini, Antonella 101 Campanini, Saverio 97 Capponi, Alessandro 28 Carmi, T. 83 Carpi, Daniel 87, 243–244 Carretto, Ludovico 65 Cassuto, Moise David 182 Cassuto, Umberto 97, 137, 180, 186, 194 Catedra, Pedro 14 Christopher di Lillo 30 Coen, Anania 185 Cohen, Jeremy 250 Cohen, Hillel 149, 153, 158–159, 161 Cola de Massese 23 Consiglio, family 27, 31–32, 104, 107–110, 118–125 Cordova (de), Consalvo 26 Dato, Mordekhai 171–172 David Calonimos (Messer) 26 De Benedetti, Salvatore 182–183 de Benevento, Angelo 22 d’Este, family 40, 52, 100, 105 Dionisio de Florio 23 Dubnov, Simon 87 Dunash ben Labrat 69 Egidio of Viterbo 49 Elija Hayyim ben Biniamin 176 Eliyahu ben Asher 146 Enrique de Villena 15 Ercole d’Este 40 Fanelli, Pasquale 26 Fano, family 57 Fardella, Lanzone 229 Farissol, Abraham 40

262

index of names

Fazello, Tommaso 259 Ferdinand (king of Aragon) 5, 8, 32, 237, 256, 258–259 Ferrante of Aragon (king of Naples) 8–9, 26 Ficino, family 18 Filippo de Nicola 30 Finzi, family 56 Flavius Mitridathes (Guglielmo Raimondo Moncada) 207–208 Fleischer, Ezra 70, 73, 75, 79 Folengo, Teofilo 158 Formiggini, Saul Menahem 182, 186–190 Formoso, Berardino 34 Foscolo, Ugo 191, 193 Francis de Aparma 34 Francisco de Tareno 31 Fregoso, Ottavian 59 Frezza, Marino 27 Funkenstein, Amos 196 Gabriele de Albret 26 Gallico, family 42 Gaudio de Perfecto 31 Gedalya Ibn Yaḥya 63 Ginzberg, Lewis 76 Giovanni di Nicola Leonardo 29 Giovanni Francesco de Labinis 31 Gomez Moreno, Angel 14 Gorgio De Lella 34 Granucci, Nicolao 172 Guglielmo di Musetto 100 Haines, James Lee 144 Halfan, Levi ben Aaron 44 Helia de Moyse 35 Hildesheimer, Meir 87 Ḥisdai Ibn Shaprut 69 Hugo, Victor 184 Iacob Faccas 230 Iacobo de Genua 34 Immanuel Romano 168, 171, 173–174, 192–193, 195 Isaac ben David ben Kimchi 55 Isaac ben Yom Tov Hage 54 Isaac Ha-Cohen 61–62 Isaac Zumat 203, 204 Isac Zarfati 202 Isacco di Emanuele 102 Jacob ben Asher 37 Jacob di Salomone di Matassia 102 Joseph Ha-Cohen 59–61, 63–68

Joshua Ha-Cohen 59 Juan de Mena 15 Judah Ha-Levi Minz (Rabbi) 62–63 Kalonymos (Kalonymus) 219, 221–222 Katz, Jacob 196 Katz, Menahem 147 Kaufmann, David 60, 171–172 Kusi (Meshullam) Montagnana 155 Lasinio, Fausto 184 Lawrence, Jeremy 14 Lazzaro de Baro 23 Lazzaro di Emanuele 103, 106 Lazzaro Paduano 23 Lelio Della Torre (Rabbi) 182, 186, 188–189, 192 Leone Ebreo 235 Leopold, Peter 107, 109, 111–113, 116–117, 124 Levi, Benedetto 188 Levi, Lazzaro 119–120 Levita, Elia 143–150, 158–160, 163–164 Loeb, Isador 60 Luzzatti, Salomine Isacco 185, 187, 190 Luzzatto, Samuel David 182, 187, 189, 192 Luzzatto, Simone 176–178, 180 Maborach Fadalcassem 220 Mactia Musarò 31 Maiorana, Nicola 27 Maitlis, Yaacov J. 144 Malaterra, Geoffrey 247, 249, 252, 256 Malkiel, David 179, 243 Manetti, Giannozzo 129, 134 Marchesani, Luigi 8–9 Marrone, Gerolamo 35 Marx, Michael 5–6, 191 Masello of Falzamia 34 Medici (de’), Julius (Giulio) 49 Medici (de’), Lorenzo 128, 136, 159 Medici (de’), family 52, 86, 130, 133, 135, 223 Meir Katzenellenbogen 59, 62, 66–67 Menachem ben Saruq 69 Michele Zumat (Rabbi) 199–202, 205, 207–208 Milano (da), Matteo 49, 52, 54, 56 Modona, Leonello 182, 187, 193 Montefeltro (da), Frederico 133 Mortara, Ludovico 182, 191 Moshe Ibn Ezra 9 Moshe Zacut 171–172, 180, 185, 187, 190 Moyses de Bona Struga 31 Mussafia, Adolfo 182, 194



index of names

Nachamulli, Salomon 31–32 Nachuay, Salamon 228 Naso, Giovanni 256–257 Norsa, family 40, 42, 44–45, 52, 54, 56, 105 Nuti, Francesco 28 Orvieto, Angelo 182, 194–195 Paggi, Angelo 182, 184 Palumbus Gausii Obesso 30 Pappacoda, Troiano 25 Perani, Mauro 206 Perera, Petro 227 Pescarol, Kalman (Kalonimus) ben Shimon 147 Piattelli, Jehudah 202 Pietro Giovanni de Rubo 34 Pilacarnis, Antonio 31 Pisa (da), Daniel 85, 94 Pisa (da), Isaac 40, 103, 105 Pisa (da), Jechiel Nissim 233–234 Pisa (da), Vitale 105 Pisa (da), family 40, 42, 98, 102, 219, 233–234, 237 Piselli, Francesca 115 Poliziano, Angelo 159 Pollack, Jacob 62 Procaccia, Micaela 241, 245 Pulci, Luigi 158–159, 161 Qalon 71, 74–76 Quarto, Francesco 31 Rabelais, Francois 158 Racah, Leon 182, 194 Rodriga (Rodriguez), Daniel 236 Rombai, Leonardo 116 Roth, Cecil 1, 171–172, 181, 193, 244 Rothschild, family 38–39, 42–43 Rovere (della), family 49, 51–52 Ruderman, David 172 Rusellus, Iosep 30 Sabbetai Donnollo 219 Salfati, Moyse 30 Samuel de Lione 25 Sanctorus de Iosep Sacerdos 30 Sansario, Musa 230 Santillana (de), Marques 15 Sapegno, Maria Serena 181 Saperstein, Marc 170 Scaragio, Nicola Maria 31 Schirmann, Jefim (Ḥayyim) 6, 70–71, 83, 175

Szczebrszyn (von), Gumprecht 162 Sebastiano del Piombo 52 Sereni, Clara 195 Sereni, Vittorio 195 Sermoneta, Joseph 170 Servi, Flaminio 182, 185, 192–193 Shelomò ben Adereth 92 Shelomo Ha-Bavli 71, 74–75, 79–80 Shemuel Ha-Nagid 69 Shlomo Ibn Verga 218–219 Shmeruk, Chone 144–145, 148, 159 Shtif, Nokhum 148–149, 162 Shulman, Elazar 143 Shulvass, Moshe 170 Silvestro de Nitto 31 Simeon de Guglielmo 22 Simon di Dio 36 Simone di Musetto 100 Soave, Moisé 182, 187, 193 Sordi, Bernardo 110, 113 Steinschneider, Moritz 143, 167, 183, 189 Sullam, Sara Copia 176–178 Summato, family 205–208, 210 Sussen de Baro 33 Tasso, Torquato 180, 183 Tchernichowsky, Saul 195 Thommaso Maria de Valerianis 31 Timm, Erika 145, 160 Tiraboschi, Girolamo 167 Tommaso de Nicolò 23 Tommaso di Vio Caientani 49 Turniansky, Chava 145 Urbini, Moisè Israel 120, 122 Veltri, Giuseppe 177 Verga, Marcello 121, 124 Vitale di Isacco 105 Volterra (da), family 99–104, 106 Weinstein, Roni 156 Xico de Mariffa 33 Yaaqov Olmo 171–172, 180, 187 Yitzhaq ben Ovadia 129, 131–132, 135 Zinger, Shmuel 155 Zizo, Garzono 34 Zizo, Salamone 34 Zizus, Leonectus 29 Zumat, family 203–204, 206–207

263

INDEX OF GEOGRAPHICAL TERMS Abruzzo 5 Africa 199–201, 204, 225, 227–231, 253 Agrigento 220 Alberona 27 Alexandria 103, 171 Alghero 225 Amatrice 105 Ancona 100, 104, 172, 182, 187, 192, 194, 223, 234–238 Andria 21 Anjou 22, 30, 213, 216, 219 Anversa (Antwerp) 55 Apulia 3, 21–22, 25, 27, 29, 31–32, 34–36 Aragon 8, 25–26, 30, 224–225, 228, 254–256, 258 Arezzo 103–104, 149 Argenta 6 Arles 219, 221–222 Ascoli 105, 165 Austria 138 Avignon 59, 219, 221

Canaan 32 Candia 22 Canosa 21 Capri 33 Capua 219 Carbonara 34 Cassano 25 Castelletto 59 Castile 14, 15, 17, 57, 230 Castrovillari 232 Catalonia (Catalogna) 102, 103, 217, 227, 232, 255 Cefalù 230 Cerignola 22 Cesena 101 Constantinople 39, 225 Corfu 14 Cosenza 102, 104, 229, 233 Crete 22, 103 Cuneo 188 Cyprus 103, 225, 227–228

Balearic Islands 227, 232 Barcelona 227, 229, 257 Bari (Terra di Bari) 21, 23, 26, 29, 30, 33, 34, 219, 248 Barletta 21, 23–25, 33 Basilicata 22, 25 Beirut 103 Bergamo 26 Berlin 5, 49, 52 Bitetto 29 Bitonto 29–31, 34 Bologna 98, 100–102, 134, 136, 145, 152, 226, 232, 249, 254 Brindisi 217 Budapest 60, 66–68 Budrio 45, 101

Damascus 103 Dubrovnik 23

Cagliari 33, 102, 224–225, 228–229 Cairo 74, 103, 137–138, 247, 248 Calabria 3, 33–34, 36, 215, 227–229, 231–233 Caltabellotta 204–205, 207–208 Cambrai 236 Cambridge 146, 148, 151–152, 156–157, 161 Camerino 105, 119

Eastern Europe 95, 138–141, 183, 188 England 1, 138, 216 Europe 60, 127–128, 135, 137–139, 141, 143, 160, 182, 208, 213, 223, 237 Fabriano 100–101 Fermo 100 Ferrara 3, 6, 13, 40–42, 44–49, 51–55, 62, 99, 100–101, 105–106, 188, 190, 234, 238 Florence 28, 37, 39–40, 43, 52, 56–57, 86, 97–100, 102–106, 108, 112–113, 115, 117, 124, 127–136, 164, 169, 183–185, 187, 189–191, 193–195, 205, 213, 219, 225, 233, 237–238, 243, 248, 255 Foggia 27 France 25, 40–41, 59–60, 138, 158, 214, 217, 225 Gaeta 102, 104, 203, 229 Gallipoli 31 Gaza 103 Genazzano 176



index of geographical terms

Genoa 2, 55, 59 Germany 87, 138, 143, 158, 216, 224 Giovinazzo 34 Gozo 227, 229 Gravina 26 Greece 61 Gubbio 105 Hebron 103 Imola 53, 56–57, 100–101 Iraklion 22 Isny 150, 160 Israel 1–4, 16–19, 60, 69, 72, 78, 137, 184, 186, 195, 244–246 Italy 1–6, 14, 27, 37–45, 47, 49, 51–53, 55–57, 59, 61–63, 65, 69, 70–76, 83, 85, 87, 92–94, 97–99, 101–102, 104, 106–108, 127, 130–131, 133–141, 143–146, 155–156, 158, 160, 162, 164–165, 167–169, 173, 175–177, 181–182, 186, 190–195, 203, 208, 213–214, 218–219, 223–227, 229, 232–234, 236, 238–241, 245, 248, 250–251 Jerba 229 Jerusalem 3, 5, 6, 16–17, 32, 37–38, 42, 54, 59, 60–61, 63, 65, 69, 70–72, 74, 79–80, 83, 86–87, 103, 112, 117, 129, 133, 135, 144–145, 147, 156, 159, 164, 172–173, 177, 179, 186, 196, 218–219, 222, 224, 234–236, 238–239, 243–244, 246–247, 254–255 Lecce 22, 25, 30, 31 Licata 229 Lipari 227 Lithuania 87, 89 Livorno (Leghorn) 86, 108, 112–115, 121, 124, 167, 190, 192–193, 234, 237–238 Lombardy 217 London 5, 51, 144, 191 Lorraine 107, 111, 113 Lucera 22–23, 26, 27 Lugo di Romagna 87–90, 93 Majorca (Mallorca) 227 Malta 227, 229 Manfredonia 22–23, 35, 219 Mantua 1, 37, 40, 56, 86, 100, 134, 155, 164, 177, 180–181, 239, 240, 241 Marche (le) 100, 105 Marsala 229 Marseille (Marsiglia) 214, 229 Matera 25 Mazara 229

265

Melfi 220 Messina 227, 229–231, 249, 254–255 Middle East 69, 208, 227 Milan 2, 30, 52, 55, 86, 99, 107–108, 112, 132, 136, 144–145, 161, 167, 169, 190, 192, 235, 238 Modena 5, 6, 40, 100, 167 Mola 34 Molfetta 29–30, 32 Molise 27 Monopoli 14, 23 Monte Cassino 248 Monte San Savino 115, 120, 122–124 Monteforte 218 Naples 8–9, 14, 17, 22–23, 25–28, 30, 32–33, 40, 57, 98, 102–105, 108, 112–113, 175, 204–205, 213–215, 217–219, 221, 223, 227–229, 231–233, 249, 253 New York 39, 40, 42–44 Nicastro 33 Nicotera 33, 215 Norcia 40, 105 North Africa 225, 227–231, 253 Novi 59, 64 Oliveto 101 Oria 32, 79 Oristano 102, 228 Otranto 21–22, 31 Ovada 59 Oxford 147–148, 152, 156–157, 162 Padova (Padua) 37, 42, 59, 62–65, 86, 88–90, 92–93, 99–101, 155, 168, 186, 188–189, 239–241, 243–244 Padula 31 Palermo 103, 171, 173, 176, 204–206, 208, 220–221, 226–231, 247, 249, 251–252, 254–259 Palestine 69–72, 186 Palinuro 232 Palo del Colle 30 Pantelleria 227 Paris 41, 60, 144–146, 221 Perugia 37, 56, 102 Pesaro 152 Piombino 102 Pisa 14, 40, 42, 85–86, 93–94, 98–100, 102–105, 108, 111, 115, 182–184, 187, 192, 206, 219, 228, 233–234, 237 Pistoia 102 Pitigliano 107–108, 112–113, 115–125 Poland 87, 143, 216

266

index of geographical terms

Pontremoli 100 Porto Torres 102 Portugal 14, 17, 18, 55–56, 138–139, 287 Posen 87, 89 Prague 96 Provence 59, 61, 213–214, 216–219, 222 Putignano 23–24 Ragusa 23, 246 Recanati 100 Reggio Calabria 227, 231 Reggio Emilia 40, 167, 182, 185, 232 Rhodes 103 Rieti 40, 63, 105, 171, 173–177, 179, 180, 185, 187 Rimini 102–103 Rome 2–3, 37–38, 42, 49, 50–52, 55, 85–90, 92–94, 98–99, 108–109, 119–120, 133, 147, 149–150, 159–160, 164, 167, 169, 173–174, 176–177, 182, 186–187, 191–192, 199–207, 209, 211, 213, 218–222, 224, 226–227, 229, 232, 234, 236, 238, 240, 243, 245, 249, 252, 259 Rossano 36 Rovigo 244 Rutigliano 34 Safed 61 Salerno 219, 221, 231–232, 248–249 Salonica 61, 64 San Giovanni Rotondo 26 San Lucido 33 San Miniato 233 San Severo 22, 26 Santa Fiora 98, 117, 119 Saragossa 255 Sardinia 33, 102, 224–225, 227–229, 232 Sciacca 203–208 Sfax 229 Sibeniko 229 Sicily 2, 3, 33–34, 138, 199, 201, 203–205, 207–209, 211, 214, 216–217, 220–221, 223, 225–228, 230, 232, 240, 247–259 Siena 102–105, 109–110, 113, 115–116, 124, 237 Siponto 23 Sorano 112, 115–117 Southern Europe 220

Spain 33, 44, 53, 55, 59, 69, 138–140, 143, 220, 225, 227, 237 Speyer 101 Spinazzola 22 Syracuse 228, 230–231, 252, 255 Taormina 217 Taranto 26, 219 Tavoliere 21 Termini 231 Termoli 27–28 Terra di Lavoro 28 Terracina 201, 203–207, 228 Tivoli 40 Toledo 55, 56 Toscanella 104 Trani 21, 23, 29–31, 35, 218–219 Trapani 33, 204, 229, 231 Tricarico 25 Tripoli 204, 229, 231 Troia 22, 25, 27, 35 Tropea 33 Tunis (Tunisia) 61, 221, 225, 227–231, 256 Turin 185, 187, 245 Turkey 60, 155, 236 Tuscany 2, 14, 102, 105–115, 117, 119, 121, 123–125, 130, 132, 183, 184, 193, 233, 237, 245 Tuscia 205 Umbria 2, 99, 105 Urbino 49, 51, 52, 133 Vasto 5–9, 11 Veneto 143, 239, 241–242, 244, 245 Venice 14, 23, 42, 49, 57, 62–63, 86–90, 92–93, 99–100, 103, 109, 134, 143, 147, 149, 152, 157, 159, 171, 177, 180–181, 187, 193, 234, 236–238, 241–243 Venosa 33, 71–72 Veroli 203 Verona 85, 86, 88–90, 92–93, 102, 144–146, 169, 234, 238, 241, 244, 246 Vicenza 100, 109 Vienna 171, 185 Viterbo 49, 199, 201, 208 Voltaggio 59 Volterra 40, 101–105, 134